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THE 


MIRROR. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


VELUTI    IN    SPE6UL0. 


VOL.  I. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 

PUBLISHED     BY    SAMUEL     F.    BRADFORD, 
NO.    4,    SOUTH    THIRD    STREET. 


1803. 


THE 

MIRROR. 


No.  I.  SATURDAY,  JANUARY  23,  1779. 

Quis  novus  hie  hospes  ?  Vine. 

WHEN  a  stranger  is  introduced  into  a  numerous 
company,  he  is  scarcely  seated  before  every  body 
present  begins  to  form  some  notion  of  his  character. 
■The  gay,  the  sprightly,  and  the  inconsiderate,  judge 
of  him  by  the  cut  of  his  coat,  the  fashion  of  his  peri- 
wig, and  the  ease  or  awkwardness  of  his  bow.  The 
cautious  citizen,  and  the  proud  country  gentleman,  va- 
lue Siim  according  to  the  opinion  they  chance  to  adopt, 
the  one,  of  the  extent  of  his  rent-roll,  the  other,  of  the 
length  of  his  pedigree;  and  all  estimate  his  merit,  in 
proportion  as  he  seems  to  possess,  or  to  want,  those 
qualities  :or  which  themselves  wish  to  be  ad  in  red. 
If,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  they  chance  to  disco- 
ver, that  he  is  in  use  to  make  one  in  the  polite  circles 
of  the  metropolis;  that  he  is  familiar  with  the  great, 
and  sometimes  closeted  with  the  minister  ;  whatever 
contempt  or  indifference  they  may  at'  first  have 
shewn,  or  ftlc  themselves  disposed  to  shew,  they  at 
once  g-ive  up  their  own  judgment ;  every  one  pays  a 
compliment  to  his  own  sagacity,  by  assuming  the  me- 
rit of  hannj,  discovered  that  this  stranger  had  the  air 
of  a  man  of  fashion ;  and  all  vie  in.  their  attention  and 

VOL.  I.  & 


4  THE   MIRROR. 

civility,  in  hopes  of  establishing  a  more  intimate  ac- 
quaintance. 

An  anonymous  periodical  writer,  when  he  first 
gives  his  works  to  the  public,  is  pretty  much  in  the 
situation  of  the  stranger.  If  he  endeavour  to  amuse 
the  young  and  the  lively,  by  the  sprightliness  of  his 
wit,  or  the  sallies  of  his  imagination,  the  grave  and 
the  sedate  throw  aside  his  works  as  trifling  and  con- 
temptible. The  reader  of  romance  and  sentiment 
finds  no  pleasure  but  in  some  eventful  story,  suited 
to  his  taste  and  disposition  :  while,  with  him  who 
aims  at  instruction  in  politics,  religion  or  morality, 
nothing  is  relished  that  has  not  a  relation  to  the  ob- 
ject he  pursues.  But,  no  sooner  is  the  public  inform*' 
ed,  that  this  unknown  author  has  already  figured  in 
the  world  as  a  poet,  historian  or  essayist ;  that  his 
writings  are  read  and  admired  by  the  Shaftsburies, 
the  Addisons,  and  the  Chesterfields  of  the  age,  than 
beauties  are  discovered  in  every  line  ;  he  is  extolled 
as  a  man  of  universal  talents,  who  can  laugh  with 
the  merry,  and  be  serious  with  the  grave  ;  who,  at 
one  time,  can  animate  his  reader  with  the  glowing 
sentiments  of  virtue  and  compassion,  and  at  another, 
carry  him  through  the  calm  disquisitions  of  science 
and  philosophy. 

Nor  is  the  world  to  be  blamed  for  this  general  mode 
of  judging.  Before  an  individual  can  form  an  opini- 
on for  himself,  he  is  under  a  necessity  of  reading 
with  attention,  of  examining  whether  the  style  and 
manner  of  the  author  be  suited  to  his  subject,  if  his 
thoughts  and  images  be  natural,  his  observations 
just,  his  arguments  conclusive  :  and  though  all  this 
may  be  done  with  moderate  talents,  and  without  any 
extraordinary  share  of  what  is  commonly  called 
learning  ;  yet  it  is  a  much  more  compendious  me- 
thod, and  saves  much  time,  and  labour,  and  reflec- 
tion, to  follow  the  crowd,  and  to  re-echo  the  opinions 
ef  the  critics. 


THE    MIRROR.  5 

There  is,  however,  one  subject,  on  which  every 
man  thinks  himselt  qualified  to  decide,  namely  the 
representation  of  his  own  character,  of  the  characters 
of  those  around  him,  and  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lives  ;  and,  as  I  propose,  in  the  following  papers, 
"  to  hold,  as  it  were  the  Mirror  up  to  nature,  to 
"  shew  Virtue  her  own  features,  Vice  her  own  image, 
u  and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his  form 
"  and  pressure/'  my  readers  will  judge  for  them_ 
selves,  independent  of  names  and  authority,  whethe 
the  picture  be  a  just  one.  This  is  a  field,  which 
however  extensively  and  judiciously  cultivated  by  my' 
predecessors,  may  still  produce  something  new.  The 
follies,  the  fashions,  and  the  vices  of  mankind,  are 
in  constant  fluctuation ;  and  these,  in  their  turn, 
bring  to  light  new  virtues,  or  modifications  of  virtues, 
which  formerly  lay  hid  in  the  human  soul,  for  want 
of  opportunities  to  exert  them.  Time  alone  can 
shew  whether  I  be  qualified  for  the  task  I  have  un- 
dertaken. No  man,  without  a  trial,  can  judge  of 
his  ability  to  please  the  public  ;  and  prudence  for- 
bids him  to  trust  the  applauses  of  partial  friendship. 

It  may  be  proper,  however,  without  meaning  to 
anticipate  the  opinion  of  the  reader,  to  give  him  some 
of  the  outlines  of  my  past  life  and  education. 

I  am  the  only  son  of  a  gentleman  of  moderate  for- 
tune. My  parents  died  when  I  was  an  infant,  leav- 
ing me  under  the  guardianship  of  an  eminent  coun- 
sellor, who  came  annually  to  visit  an  estate  he  had 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  my  father's,  and  of  the  cler- 
gyman of  the  parish,  both  of  them  men  of  distin- 
guished probity  and  honour.  They  took  particular  care 
of  my  education,  intending  me  for  one  of  the  learned 
professions.  At  the  age  of  twenty  I  had  completed 
my  studies,  and  was  preparing  to  enter  upon  the  thea 
tre  of  the  world,  when  the  death  of  a  distant  relation* 
in  the  metropolis  left  me  possessed  of  a  handsome 
fortune.     I  soon  after  set  out  on  the  tour  of  Europe  ; 


>  THE   MIRROR. 

and  having  passed  five  years  in  visiting  the  different 
courts  on  the  Continent,  and  examining  the  manners, 
with,  at  least,  as  much  attention  as  the  pictures  and 
buildings  of  the  kingdoms  through  which  I  passed,  I 
returned  to  my  native  country  ;  where  a  misfortune 
of  the  tenderest  kind  threw  me,  for  some  time,  into 
retirement. 

By  the  assiduities  of  some  friends,  who  have  pro- 
mised to  assist  me  in  the  present  publication,  I  was 
prevented  from  falling  a  sacrifice  to  that  languid  in- 
activity which  a  depression  of  spirits  never  fails  to 
produce.  Without  seeming  to  do  so,  they  engaged 
me  by  degrees  to  divide  my  time  between  study  and 
society  ;  restoring,  by  that  means,  a  relish  for  both. 
2  once  more  took  a  share  in  the  busy,  and,  sometimes, 
in  the  idle  scenes  of  life.  But  a  mind,  habituated  to 
reflection,  though  it  may  seem  occupied  with  the  oc- 
currences of  the  day,  (a  tax  which  politeness  exacts, 
which  every  benevolent  heart  cheerfully  pays,)  will 
cften,  at  the  same  time,  be  employed  in  endeavour- 
ing to  discover  the  springs  and  motives  of  action, 
which  are  sometimes  hid  from  the  actors  themselves  ; 
to  trace  the  progress  of  character  through  the  mazes 
in  which  it  is  involved  by  education  or  habit  ;  to  mark 
those  approaches  to  error  into  which  unsuspecting 
innocence  and  integrity  are  too  apt  to  be  led  ;  and, 
in  general,  to  investigate  those  passions  and  affections 
of  the  mind  which  have  the  chief  influence  on  the 
happiness  of  individuals,  or  of  society. 

If  the  sentiments  and  observations  to  which  this 
train  of  thinking  will  naturally  give  rise,  can  be  exhi- 
bited in  this  paper,  in  such  a  dress  and  manner  as  to 
afford  amusement,  it  will,  at  least,  be  an  innocent 
one  ;  and,  though  instruction  is,  perhaps,  hardly  to 
be  expected  from  such  desultory  sketches,  yet  their 
general  tendency  shall  be,  to  cultivate  taste,  and  im- 
prove the  heart. 

T 


THE   MIRROR. 


No.  II.     SATURDAY,  JANUARY  30. 

NO  child  ever  heard  from  its  nurse  the  story  of 
Jack  the  Giant-killer's  cap  of  darkness,  without  envy- 
ing the  pleasures  of  invisibility  ;  and  the  idea  of 
Gyges's  ring  has  made,  I  believe,  many  a  grave 
mouth  water. 

This  power  is,  in  some  degree,  possessed  by  the 
writer  of  an  anonymous  paper.  He  can  at  least  ex- 
ercise it  for  a  purpose  for  which  people  would  be  most 
apt  to  use  the  privilege  of  being  invisible,  to  wit, 
that  of  hearing  what  is  said  of  himself. 

A  few  hours  after  the  publication  of  my  first  num- 
ber, I  sallied  forth,  with  all  the  advantages  of  invisi- 
bility, to  hear  an  account  of  myself  and  my  paper. 
I  must  confess,  however,  that,  for  some  time;  I  was 
mortified  by  hearing  no  such  account  at  all ;  the  first 
company  I  visited  being  dull  enough  to  talk  of  last 
night's  Advertiser,  instead  of  the  Mirror  ;  and  the 
second,  which  consisted  of  ladies,  to  whom  I  ven- 
tured to  mention  the  appearance  of  my  first  number, 
making  a  sudden  digression  to  the  price  of  a  new- 
fashioned  lutestring,  and  the  colour  of  the  trimming 
with  which  it  would  be  proper  to  make  it  up  into  a 
gown.  Nor  was  1  more  fortunate  in  the  third  place 
where  I  contrived  to  introduce  the  subject  of  my 
publication,  though  it  was  a  coffee-house,  where  it 
is  actually  taken  in  for  the  use  of  the  customers ;  a 
set  of  old  gentlemen,  at  one  table,  throwing  it  aside 
to  talk  over  a  bargain  ;  and  a  company  of  young 
ones,  at  another,  breaking  off  in  the  middle  to  decide 
a  match  at  billiards. 

It  was  not  till  I  arrived  at  the  place  of  its  birth 
that  I  met  with  any  traces  of  its  fame.  In  the  well- 
known  shop  of  my  editor  I  found  it  the  subject  of 
conversation  ;  though  I  must  own,  that,  even  here, 
sfome  little  quackery  was  used  for  the  purpose,  as  he 

b  2 


I  THE   MIRROR. 

had  taken  care  to  have  several  copies  lying  open  on 
the  table,  besides  the  conspicuous  appearance  of  the 
subscription-paper  hung  up  fronting  the  door,  with 
the  word  mirror  a-top,  printed  in  large  capitals. 

The  first  question  I  found  agitated  was  concerning 
the  author,  that  being  a  point  within  the  reach  of  eve- 
ry capacity.  Mr.  Creech,  though  much  importuned 
on  this  head,  knew  his  business  better  than  to  satisfy 
their  curiosity  :  so  the  hounds  were  cast  off  to  find 
him,  and  many  a  different  scent  they  hit  on.  Firsfc> 
he  was  a  Clergyman,  then  a  Professor,  then  a  Play- 
er, then  a  Gentleman  of  the  Exchequer  who  writes 
plays,  then  a  Lawyer,  a  Doctor  of  Laws,  a  Com- 
missioner of  the  Customs,  a  Baron  of  the  Exchequer, 
a  Lord  of  Session,  a  Peer  of  the  Realm.  A  critic, 
who  talked  much  about  style,  was  positive  as  to  the 
sex  of  the  writer,  and  declared  it  to  be  female, 
strengthening  his  conjecture  by  the  name  of  the  pa- 
per, which,  he  said,  would  not  readily  have  occurred 
to  a  man.  He  added,  ihat  it  was  full  of  Scotticisms, 
which  sufficiently  marked  it  to  be  a  "  home  produc- 
«  tion." 

This  led  to  animadversions  on  the  work  itself ; 
which  were  begun  by  an  observation  of  my  own,  that 
it  seemed,  from  the  slight  perusal  I  had  given  it,  to 
be  tolerably  well  written.  The  critic  above-mention- 
ed strenuously  supported  the  contrary  opinion  ;  and 
concluded  his  strictures  on  this  particular  publication, 
with  a  general  remark  on  all  modern  ones,  that  there 
was  no  force  of  thought,  nor  beauty  of  composition, 
to  be  found  in  them. 

An  elderly  gentleman,  who  said  he  had  a  guess  at 
the  author,  prognosticated,  that  the  paper  would  be 
used  as  the  vehicle  of  a  system  of  scepticism,  and 
that  he  had  very  little  doubt  of  seeing  Mr.  Hume's 
posthumous  works  introduced  in  it.  A  short,  squat 
man,  with  a  carbuncled  face,  maintained,  that  it  was 
designed  to  propagate  methodism  ;  and  said,  he  be- 


THE    MIRROR.  § 

lieved  it  to  be  the  production  of  a  disciple  of  Mr. 
John  Wesley.  A  gentleman  in  a  gold  chain  differed 
from  both  ;  and  told  us,  he  had  been  informed,  from 
very  good  authority,  that  the  paper  was  intended  for 
political  purposes. 

A  smart-looking  young  man,  in  green,  said,  he 
was  sure  it  would  be  very  satirical :  his  companion, 
in  scarlet,  was  equally  certain  that  it  would  be  very 
stupid.  But  with  this  last  prediction  I  was  not  much 
offended,  when  I  discovered  that  its  author  had  not 
read  the  first  number,  but  only  enquired  of  Mr. 
Creech  where  it  was  published. 

A  plump  round  figure,  near  the  fire,  who  had  just 
put  on  his  spectacles  to  examine  the  paper,  closed 
the  debate,  by  observing,  with  a  grave  aspect,  that 
as  the  author  was  anonymous,  it  was  proper  to  be 
very  cautious  in  talking  of  the  performance.  After 
glancing  over  the  pages,  he  said,  he  could  have  wish- 
ed they  had  set  apart  a  corner  for  intelligence  from 
America  :  but,  having  taken  off  his  spectacles,  wiped 
and  put  them  into  their  case,  he  said,  with  a  tone  of 
discovery,  he  had  found  out  the  reason  why  there 
was  nothing  of  that  sort  in  the  mirror  ;  it  was  in 
order  to  save  the  tax  upon  newspapers. 

Upon  getting  home  to  my  lodgings,  and  reflecting 
on  what  I  had  heard,  I  was  for  some  time  in  doubt, 
whether  I  should  not  put  an  end  to  these  questions 
at  once,  by  openly  publishing  my  name  and  intentions 
to  the  world.  But  I  am  prevented  from  discovering 
the  first  by  a  certain  bashfulness,  of  which  even  my 
travels  have  not  been  able  to  cure  me  ;  from  declar- 
ing the  last,  by  being  really  unable  to  declare  them. 
The  complexion  of  my  paper  will  depend  on  a  thou- 
sand circumstances  which  it  is  impossible  to  foresee. 
Besides  these  little  changes,  to  which  every  one  is 
liable  from  external  circumstances,  I  must  fairly  ac- 
knowledge, that  my  mind  is  naturally  much  more 
various  than  my  situation.      The  disposition  of  the 


10  tHE    MIRROR. 

author  will  not  always  correspond  with  the  temper  of 
the  man  :  in  the  first  character  I  may  sometimes  in- 
dulge a  sportiveness  to  which  I  am  a  stranger  in  the 
latter,  and  escape  from  a  train  of  very  different 
thoughts,  into  the  occasional  gaiety  of  the  mirror. 

The  general  tendency  of  my  lucubrations,  how- 
ever, I  have  signified  in  my  first  number,  in  allusion 
to  my  title  :  I  mean  to  shew  the  world  what  it  is, 
and  will  sometimes  endeavour  to  point  out  what  it 
should  be. 

Somebody  has  compared  the  publisher  of  a  perio- 
dical paper  of  this  kind  to  the  owner  of  a  stage-coach, 
who  is  obliged  to  run  his  vehicle  with  or  without  pas- 
sengers. One  might  carry  on  the  allusion  through 
various  points  of  similarity.  I  must  confess  to  my 
customers,  that  the  road  we  are  to  pass  together  is 
not  a  new  one  ;  that  it  has  been  travelled  again  and 
again,  and  that  too  in  much  better  carriages  than 
mine.  I  would  only  insinuate,  that,  though  the  great 
objects  are  still  the  same,  there  are  certain  little 
edifices,  some  beautiful,  some  grotesque,  and  some 
ridiculous,  which  people,  on  every  side  of  the  read, 
are  daily  building,  in  the  prospect  of  which  we  may 
find  some  amusement.  Their  fellow-passengers  will 
sometimes  be  persons  of  high,  and  sometimes  of  low 
rank,  as  in  other  stage-coaches ;  like  them,  too, 
sometimes  grave,  sometimes  facetious  ;  but  that  la- 
dies and  men  of  delicacy,  may  not  be  afraid  to  take 
places,  they  may  be  assured,  that  no  scurrilous  or 
indecent  company  will  ever  be  admitted. 


THE    MIRROR.  H 


No.  III.     TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY  2. 

Formam  qudidem  ipsam  et  faciem  honesti  vides,  quae,  si  oculis 
cerneretur,  mirabiles  amores  exciraret  sapiential.     Cic 

THE  philosopher,  and  the  mere  man  of  taste, 
differ  from  vach  other  chiefly  in  this,  that  the  latter 
is  satisfied  with  the  pleasure  he  receives  from  objects, 
without  enquiring  into  the  principles  or  causes  from 
which  that  pleasure  proceeds ;  but  the  philosophical 
enquirer,  not  satisfied  witn  the  effect  which  objects 
viewed  by  him,  produce,  endeavours  to  discover  the 
reasons  why  some  of  those  objects  give  pleasure,  and 
others  disgust;  why  one  composition  is  agreeable, 
and  another  the  reverse.  Hence  have  arisen  the  va- 
rious systems  with  regard  to  the  principles  of  beauty; 
and  hence  the  rules,  which,  deduced  from  those  prin- 
ciples, have  been  established  by  the  critic. 

In  the  course  of  these  investigations,  various  theo- 
ries have  been  invented  to  explain  the  different  qua- 
lities, which  when  assembled  together,  constitute 
beauty,  and  produce  that  feeling  which  arises  in 
the  mind  from  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  object. 
Some  philosophers  have  said,  that  this  feeling  arises 
from  the  sight  or  examination  of  an  object  in  which 
there  is  a  proper  mixture  of  uniformity  and  variety  ; 
others  have  thought,  that,  beside  uniformity  and  va- 
riety, a  number  of  other  qualities  enter  into  the 
composition  of  an  object  that  is  termed  beautiful. 

To  engage  in  an  examination  of  those  different 
systems,  or  to  give  any  opinion  of  my  own  with  re- 
gard to  them,  would  involve  me  in  a  discussion  too 
abstruse  for  a  paper  of  this  kind.  I  shall,  however, 
beg  leave  to  present  my  readers  with  a  quotation  from 
a  treatise,  intitled,  "  An  Inquiry  into  the  Original  of 
"  our  Ideas  of  Beauty  and  Virtue."*    Speaking  of  the 

*  By  Dr.  Hutcheson. 


12  THE    MIRROR. 

effect  which  the  beauty  of  the  human  figure  has  upoia 
our  minds,  the  author  expresses  himself  in  the  follow- 
ing words. 

"  There  is  a  farther  consideration,  which  must  not 
44  be  passed  over,  concerning  the  external  beauty  of 
44  persons,  which  all  allow  to  have  great  power  over 
44  human  minds.  Now,  it  is  some  apprehended  mo- 
44  rality,  some  natural  or  imagined  indication  of  con- 
44  comitant  virtue,  which  gives  it  this  powerful  charm 
44  above  all  other  kinds  of  beauty.  Let  us  consider 
44  the  characters  of  beauty  which  are  commonly  ad- 
44  mired  in  countenances,  and  we  shall  find  them  to 
44  be  sweetness,  mildness,  majesty,  dignity,  vivacity, 
44  humility,  tenderness,  good-nature ;  that  is,  cer- 
44  tain  airs,  proportions,  4  je  ne  scai  quois,'  are  natu- 
44  ral  indications  of  such  virtues,  or  of  abilities  or  dis- 
44  positions  towards  them.  As  we  observed  above,  of 
44  misery  or  distress  appearing «in  countenances;  so, 
<4  it  is  certain,  almost  all  habitual  dispositions  of  mind 
<f  form  the  countenance,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give 
44  some  indications  to  the  spectator.  Our  violent 
*  passions  are  obvious,  at  first  view,  in  the  counte- 
44  nance,  so  that  sometimes  no  art  can  conceal  them  ; 
44  and  smaller  degrees  of  them  give  some  less  ob- 
44  vious  turns  to  the  face,  which  an  accurate  eye  will 
«  observe." 

What  an  important  lesson  may  be  drawn  by  my 
fair  countrywomen  from  the  observations  contained 
in  this  passage  !  Nature  has  given  to  their  sex  beauty 
of  external  form  greatly  superior  to  that  of  the 
other ;  the  power  which  this  gives  them  over  our 
hearts  they  well  know,  and  they  need  no  instructor 
how  to  exercise  it ;  but  whoever  can  give  any  pre- 
scription by  which  that  beauty  may  be  increased,  or 
its  decay  retarded,  is  a  useful  monitor,  and  a  bene- 
volent friend. 

Now  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that  a  prescription  may 


THE   MIRROR.  15 

be  extracted  from  the  unfashionable  philosopher  a- 
bove  quoted,  which  will  be  more  effectual  in  height- 
ening and  preserving  the  beauty  of  the  ladies,  than  all 
the  pearl  powder,  or  other  cosmetics  of  the  perfumer's 
shop.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  misunderstood,  and  I 
beg  my  fair  readers  may  not  think  me  so  ill-bred,  or 
so  ignorant  of  the  world,  as  to  recommend  the  quali- 
ties mentioned  in  the  above  passage,  on  account  of 
their  having  any  intrinsic  value.  To  recommend  to 
the  world  to  embrace  virtue  for  its  own  sake,  should 
be  left  to  such  antiquated  fellows  as  the  heathen  phi- 
losopher from  whom  I  have  taken  the  motto  of  this 
number,  or  the  modern  philosopher  who  has  borrowed 
much  from  his  writings  ;  bu*  I  would  not  wish  to 
sully  my  paper,  or  to  prevent  its  currency  in  the 
fashionable  circle,  by  such  obsolete  doctrines. 

Far  be  it  from  me,  therefore,  so  much  as  to  hint 
to  a  fine  lady,  that  she  should  sometimes  stay  at 
home,  or  retire  to  the  country  with,  that  dullest  of  all 
dull  companions,  a  husband,  because  it  is  the  duty 
of  a  wife  to  pay  attention  to  her  spouse  ;  that  she 
should  speak  civilly  to  her  servants,  because  it  is 
agreeable  to  the  fitness  of  things  ;  that  people  under 
us  should  be  well  treated  ;  that  she  should  give  up 
play,  or  late  hours  upon  Sunday,  because  the  parson 
says  Sunday  should  be  devoted  to  religion.  I  know 
well,  that  nothing  is  so  unfashionable  as  for  a  husband 
and  wife  to  be  often  together  ;  that  it  is  beneath  a 
fine  lady  to  give  attention  to  domestic  economy,  or 
to  demean  herself  so  far  as  to  consider  servants  to  be 
of  the  same  species  with  their  mistresses  ;  and  tkat 
going  to  church  is  fit  only  for  fools  and  old  women. 
But  though  I  do  not  recommend  the  above,  or  the 
like  practices,  on  their  own  account,  and  in  so  far 
must  differ  from  the  philosophical  gentlemen  I  have 
referred  to  ;  yet,  I  think,  what  they  recommend  ought 
to  be  attended  to,  for  the  good  effects  it  may  have 
on  female   beauty.     Though  I  am  aware,  that  every 


14  THE    MIRROR. 

fine  lady  is  apt,  like  Lady  Townly,  to  faint  at  the  rery- 
description  of  the  pleasures  of  the  country  ;  yet  she 
ought  to  be  induced  to  spend  some  of  her  time  there, 
even  though  it  should  be  her  husband's  principal 
place  of  residence  ;  because  the  tranquillity,  and  fresh 
air  of  the  country,  may  repair  some  of  the  devasta- 
tions t*hich  a  winter-campaign  in  town  may  have 
made  upon  her  cheeks.  Though  I  knew  also,  that 
spending  Sunday  like  a  good  Christian  is  the  most 
tiresome  and  unfashionable  of  ail  things  ;  yet,  per- 
haps, some  observance  of  the  sabbath,  and  a  iiitle 
regularity  on  that  day,  by  going  to  church,  and  get- 
ting early  to  bed,  may  smooth  those  wrinkles  which 
the  late  hours  of  the  other  six  are  apt  to  produce  : 
and  though  economy,  or  attention  to  a  husband's  af- 
fairs, is,  1  allow,  a  mean  and  vulgar  tiling  in  itself; 
yet,  possibly  ^  it  should  be  so  far  attended  to  as  to 
prevent  that  busband's  total  ruin  ;  because  duns,  and 
the  other  impertinent  concomitants  of  bankruptcy, 
are  apt,  from  the  trouble  they  occasion,  to  spoil  a 
fine  face  before  its  time.  In  like  manner,  though  I 
grant  it  is  below  a  fine  lady  to  cultivate  the  qualities 
of  sweetness,  mildness,  humility,  tenderness,  or  good- 
nature, because  she  is  taught  that  it  is  hei  duty  to 
do  so  ;  I  would  nevertheless,  humbly  propose  to  the 
ladies,  to  be  good-humoured*  to  be  mild  to  their  do- 
mestics, nay,  to  be  complaisant  even  to  their  hus- 
bands ;  because  good  humour,  mildness  and  com- 
plaisance, are  good  for  their  faces.  Attention  to 
these  qualities,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  will  do  more 
for  their  beauty  than  the  finest  paint  the  most  skil- 
fully laid  on  :  the  culture  of  them  will  give  a  higher 
lustre  to  their  complexion,  without  any  danger  of  this 
colouring,  being  rubbed  off,  or  the  natural  fineness 
of  the  skin  being  hurt  by  its  use. 

Let  every  bay,  therefore,  consider  that  whenever 

ys  or  does  a  ^o^d-humoured  thing,  she  adds  a 

;'i„  ^..auty  to  her  countenance  ;  that  by  giving  some 


THE    MIRROR.  15 

attention  to  the  affairs  of  her  family,  and  now  and 
then  living  regularly,  and  abstaining  from  the  late 
hours  of  dissipation,  she  will  keep  off,  somewhat 
longer  than  otherwise,  the  wrinkles  of  age  :  and  I 
would  hope  the  prescription  I  have  given  may, 
amidst  the  more  important  cares  of  pleasure,  appear 
deserving  of  her  attention. 

This  prescription  must,  from  its  nature,  hi  con- 
fined to  the  ladies,  beauty  in  perfection  being  their 
prerogative.  To  recommend  virtue  to  our  fine  gen- 
tlemen, because  vice  may  hurt  their  shapes,  or  spoil 
their  faces,  might  appear  somewhat  like  irony,  which, 
on  so  serious  a  subject,  I  would  wish  to  avoid.  Some 
considerations  may,  however,  be  suggested,  why 
even  a  fine  gentleman  may  find  his  account  in  an 
occasional  practice  of  virtue,  without  derogating  from 
the  dignity  of  that  character  which  it  costs  him  so 
much  labour  to  attain  ;  and  these  may  perhaps  be 
the  subject  of  a  future  paper. 


No.  IV.  SATURDAY,  FEBRUARY  6. 

Meliora  pii  docuere  parentes.  Hoa. 

THE  following  letter  I  received  from  an  unknown 
correspondent.  The  subject  of  it  is  so  important, 
that  I  shall  probably  take  some  future  opportunity  of 
giving  my  sentiments  on  it  to  the  public  :  in  the  mean 
time  I  am  persuaded  it  will  afford  matter  of  much 
serious  consideration  to  many  of  my  readers. 

To  the  Author  of  tlie  Mirror. 
Sir, 
AT  the  age  of  twenty-five  I  succeeded  to  an  estate 
of  15001   a  year  by  the  death  of  a  father,  by  whom  I 
vol.  i.  c 


16  THE     MIRROR. 

was  tenderly  beloved,  and  for  whose  memory  I  stiH 
retain  the  most  sincere  regard.  Not  long  after  I 
married  a  lady,  to  whom  I  had  for  some  time;  been 
'warmly  attached.  As  neither  of  us  were  fond  of  the 
bustle  of  the  world,  and  as  we  found  it  every  day 
become  more  irksome,  we  took  the  resolution  of 
quitting  it  altogether  ;  and  soon  after  retired  to  a 
family-seat,  which  has  been  the  favourite  residence 
of  my  ancestors  for  many  successive  generations. 

There  I  passed  my  days  in  as  perfect  happiness 
as  any  reasonable  man  can  expect  to  find  in  this 
world.  My  affection  and  esteem  for  my  wife  in- 
creased daily  ;  and  as  she  brought  me  three  fine 
children,  two  boys  and  a  girl,  their  prattle  afforded 
a  new  fund  cf  amusement.  There  were,  likewise,  in 
our  neighbourhood  several  families  that  might  have 
adorned  any  society,  with  whom  we  lived  on  an  easy, 
friendly  fooling,  free  from  the  restraints  of  ceremony, 
which,  in  the  great  world,  may,  perhaps,  be  neces- 
sary, but,  in  private  life,  are  the  bane  of  all  social  in- 
tercourse. 

There  is  no  state,  however,  entirely  free  from  care 
and  uneasiness.  My  solicitude  about  my  children  in- 
creased with  their  years.  My  boys,  in  particular, 
gave  me  a  thousand  anxious  thoughts.  Many  plans 
of  education  were  proposed  for  them,  of  which  the  ad- 
vantages and  disadvantages  were  so  equally  balanced, 
as  to  render  the  choice  of  any  one  a  matter  of  no 
small  perplexity. 

Meantime  the  boys  grew  up  ;  and  the  eldest,  who 
was  a  year  older  than  his  brother,  had  entered  his 
tenth  year,  when  an  uncle  of  my  wife,  who,  by  his 
services  in  parliament,  and  an  assiduous  attendance 
at  court,  had  obtained  a  very  considerable  office  under 
government,  honoured  us  with  a  visit.  He  seemed 
much  pleased  with  the  locks,  the  spirit.,  and  promis- 
ing appearance  of  my  sons  ;  he  paid  me  many  com- 
pliments on  the  occasion,  and  I  listened  to  him  with 


Ttt£   MIRROR.  IT 

all  the  pleasure  a  fond  parent  feels  in  hearing  the' 
praises  of  his  children. 

After  he  had  been  some  days  with  us,  he  asked  me 
in  what  manner  I  proposed  to  educate  the  boys,  and 
what  my  views  were  as  to  their  establishment  in  the 
world  ?  I  told  him  all  my  doubts  and  perplexities. 
He  enlarged  on  the  absurdity  of  the  old  fashioned 
system  of  education,  as  he  termed  it,  and  talked  much 
of  the  folly  of  sending  a  boy  to  Eton  or  Westminster, 
to  waste  the  most  precious  years  of  his  life  in  ac- 
quiring languages  of  little  or  no  real  use  in  the  world  ;■ 
and  begged  leave  to  suggest  a  plan,  which,  he  said, 
had  been  attended  with  the  greatest  success  in  a  va- 
riety of  instances  that  had  fallen  within  his  own  par- 
ticular knowledge. 

His  scheme  was  to  send  my  sons  for  two  or  three 
years  to  a  private  school  in  t'ne  neighbourhood  of  Lon- 
don, where  they  might  get  rid  of  their  provincial  dia- 
lect, which*  he  observed;  would  be  alone  sufficient  to 
disappoint  all  hopes  of  their  future  advancement.  He 
proposed  co  send  theiri  afterwards  to  an  academy  at 
Paris,  to  acquire  the  French  language,  with  avevy 
other  accomplishment  necessary  to  fit  them  for  the 
world,  "  When  your  eldest  son,"  added  he,  '•  is 
thus  qualified,  it  will  be  easy  for  me  to  get  him  ap- 
pointed secretary  to  an  embassy  ;  and  if  he  shall  then 
possess  those  abilities  of  which  he  has  now  every  ap- 
pearance, I  make  no  doubt  I  shall  be  able  to  procure 
him  a  seat  in  parliament ;  and  there  will  be  no  office 
in  the  state  to  which  he  may  not  aspire.  As  to  your 
secbnd  son,  give  him  the  same  education  you  give 
his  brother  ;  and  when  he  is  of  a  proper  age,  get  him 
a  commission  in  the  army,  and  push  him  on  in  that 
line  as  fast  as  possible." 

Though  I  saw  some  objections  to  this  scheme, 
yet,  I  must  confess,  the  flattering  prospect  of  ambi- 
tion it  opened,  had  a  considerable  effect  upon  my 
mind  j  and'  as  my  wife,  who  had  been  taught  to  re- 


?8  THE   MIRROR. 

ceive  the  opinions  of  her  kinsman  with  the  utmost 
deference,  warmly  seconded  his  proposal,  I  at  length, 
though  not  without  reluctance,  gave  my  assent  to  it. 
When  the  day  cf  departure  came,  I  accompanied 
my  boys  part  of  the  way  ;  and,  at  taking  leave  of 
them,  felt  a  pang  I  then  endeavoured  to  conceal,  and 
which  I  need  not  now  attempt  to  describe. 

I  had  the  satisfaction  to  receive,  from  time  to  time, 
the  most  pleasing  accounts  of  their  progress  ;  and, 
after  they  went  to  Paris,  I  was  still  more  and  more 
flattered  with  what  I  heard  of  their  improvement. 

At  length  the  wished  for  period  of  their  return  ap- 
proached :  I  heard  of  their  arrival  in  Britain,  and 
that,  by  a  certain  day,  we  might  expect  to  see  them 
at  home.  We  were  all  impatience  :  my  daughter, 
in  particular,  did  nothing  but  count  the  hours  and 
minutes,  and  hardly  shut  her  eyes  the  night  pre- 
ceding the  day  on  which  her  brothers  were  expected  : 
her  mother  and  I,  though  we  showed  it  less,  felt,  I 
believe,  equal  anxiety. 

When  the  day  came,  my  girl,  who  had  been  con- 
stantly on  the  look-out,  ran  to  tell  me  she  saw  a  post- 
chaise  driving  to  the  gate.  We  hurried  down  to  re- 
ceive the  boys.  But,  judge  of  my  astonishment, 
when  I  saw  two  pale  emaciated  figures  get  out  of  the 
carriage,  in  their  dress  and  looks  resembling  mon- 
kies  rather  than  human  creatures.  What  was  still 
worse,  their  manners  were  more  displeasing  than 
their  appearance.  When  my  daughter  ran  up,  with 
tears  cf  joy  in  her  eyes,  to  embrace  her  brother,  he 
held  her  from  him,  and  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit 
of  laughter  at  something  in  her  dress  that  appeared 
to  him  ridiculous.  He  was  joined  in  the  laugh  by  his 
younger  brother,  who  was  pleased,  however,  to  say, 
that  the  girl  was  not  ill-looking,  and,  when  taught 
to  put  on  her  cloaths,  and  to  use  a  little  rouge,  would 
fee  tolerable. 


THE    MIRROR.  19 

Mortified  as  I  was  at  this  impertinence,  the  parti- 
ality of  a  parent  led  me  to  impute  it,  in  a  great  mea- 
sure to  the  levity  of  youth  ;  and  I  still  flattered  my* 
self  that  matters  were  not  so  bad  as  they  appeared  to 
be.  In  these  hopes  I  sat  down  to  dinner.  But  there 
the  behaviour  of  the  young  gentlemen  did  not,  by 
any  means  tend  to  lessen  my  chagrin  :  there  was  no- 
thing at  table  they  could  eat  :  they  ran  out  in  praise 
of  French  cookery,  and  seemed  even  to  be  adepts  in 
the  science  ;  they  knew  the  component  ingredients 
of  the  most  fashionable  ragoos  and  fricandeaus,  and 
were  acquainted  with  the  names  and  characters  of 
the  most  celebrated  practitioners  of  the  art  in  Paris. 

To  stop  this  inundation  of  absurdity,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  to  try  the  boys  further,  I  introduced  some 
topics  of  conversation,  on  which  they  ought  to  have 
been  able  to  say  something.  But,  on  these  subjects, 
they  were  perfectly  mute  ;  and  I  could  plainly  see 
their  silence  did  not  proceed  from  the  modesty  and 
diffidence  natural  to  youth,  but  from  the  most  per- 
fect and  profound  ignorance.  They  soon,  however, 
took  their  revenge  for  the  restraint  thus  imposed  on 
them.  In  their  turn  they  began  to  talk  of  things, 
which  to  the  rest  of  the  company,  were  altogether 
unintelligible.  After  some  conversation,  the  drift  of 
which  we  could  not  discover,  they  got  into  a  keen  de- 
bate on  the  comparative  merit  of  the  "  Dos  de  Puce," 
and  the  "  Puce  en  Couches  ;"  and,  in  the  course  of 
their  argument,  used  words  and  phrases  which  to  us 
were  equally  incomprehensible  as  the  subject  on 
which  they  were  employed.  Not  long  after  my  poor 
girl  was  covered  with  confusion,  on  her  brother's 
asking  her,  if  she  did  not  "think  the  *  cuisse  de  la 
"  reine"  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world  ? 

But,  Sir,   I  should  be  feapp;*,  were  I  able  to  say, 

that  ignorance  and  folly,  bad  as  they  are,  were  all  I 

had  to  complain  of.     I  am  sorry  to  add,  that  my 

young  men  seem  to  have  made  an  equal  progress  in 

c  2 


20  THE    MIRROR. 

vice.  It  was  but  the  other  day  I  happened  to  observe 
to  the  eldest,  that  it  made  me  uneasy  to  see  his  bro- 
ther look  so  very  ill ;  to  which  he  replied,  with  an 
air  of  the  most  easy  indifference,  that  poor  Charles 
had  been  a  little  unfortunate  in  an  affair  with  an  ope- 
ra-girl at  Paris  :  but,  for  my  part,  added  he,  I  never 
ran  those  hazards,  as  I  always  confined  my  amours 
to  women  of  fashion. 

In  short,  Sir,  these  unfortunate  youths  have  re- 
turned ignorant  of  every  thing  they  ought  to  know  ; 
their  minds  corrupted,  and  their  bodies  debilitated, 
by  a  couise  of  premature  debauchery.  I  can  easily 
see  that  I  do  not  possess  either  their  confidence  or 
affection  ;  and  they  even  seem  to  despise  me  for  the 
want  of  those  frivolous  accomplishments  on  which 
they  value  themselves  so  highly.  In  this  situation, 
what  is  to  be  done  ?  Their  vanity  and  conceit  make 
them  incapable  of  listening  to  reason  or  advice  ;  and 
to  use  the  authority  of  a  parent,  would,  probably,  be 
as  ineffectual  for  their  improvement,  as  to  me  it 
would  be  unpleasant. 

1  have  thus,  Sir,  laid  my  case  before  you,  in  hopes 
©f  being  favoured  with  your  sentiments  upon  it.  Pos- 
sibly it  may  be  of  some  benefit  to  the  public,  by  serv- 
ing as  a  beacon  to  others  in  similar  circumstances. 
As  to  myself,  I  hardly  expect  you  will  be  able  to 
point  out  a  remedy  for  that  affliction  which  preys 
upon  the  mind,  and,  in  all  likelihood,  will  shorten 
the  days  of 

Your  unfortunate,  humble  servant, 

L.  G. 

NOTES  TO  CORRESPONDENTS. 

Vitreus's  favours  have  been  received,  and  shall 
be  duly  attended  to. 

A  letter  signed  A.  Z.  and  an  essay  subscribed  I>. 
are  under  consideration. 


THE    MIRROR.  21 

On  Wednesday  next  (Tuesday  being  appointed 
for  the  day  of  the  national  fast)  will  be  published 
No.  V. 


No.  V.    WEDNESDAY,  FEBRUARY  10. 

PEDANTRY,  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word, 
paeans  an  absurd  ostentation  of  learning,  and  stiffness 
of  phraseology,  proceeding  from  a  misguided  know- 
ledge of  books,  and  a  total  ignorance  of  men. 

But  I  have  often  thought,  that  we  might  extend  its 
signification  a  good  deal  farther  :  and,  in  general,  ap- 
ply it  to  that  failing  which  disposes  a  person  to  ob- 
trude  upon  others,  subjects  of  conversation  relating 
to  his  own  businessr  studies,  or  amusement. 

In  this  sense  of  the  phrase,  we  should  find  pedants 
in  every  character  and  condition  of  life.  Instead  of  a 
black  coat  and  plain  shirt,  we  should  often  see  pe- 
dantry appear  in  an  embroidered  suit  and  Brussels 
lace  ;  instead  of  being  bedaubed  with  snuff,  we  should 
find  it  breathing  perfumes  ;  and,  in  place  of  a 
book-worm,  crawling  through  the  gloomy  cloisters 
of  an  university,  we  should  mark  it  in  the  state  of  a 
gilded  butterfly,  buzzing  through  the  gay  region  of 
the  drawing-room. 

Robert  Daisey,  esq.  is  a  pedant  of  this  last  kind. 
When  he  tells  you,  that  his  ruffles  cost  twenty  gui- 
neas a-pair ;  that  his  buttons  were  the  first  of  the 
kind,  made  by  one  of  the  most  eminent  artists  in 
Birmingham  ;  that  his  buckles  were  procured  by 
means  of  a  friend  at  Paris,  and  are  the  exact  pattern 
of  those  worn  by  the  Comte  d'Artois  ;  that  the  loop 
of  his  hat  was  of  his  own  contrivance,  and  has  set 
the  fashion  to  half  a  dozen  of  the  finest  fellows  in 


'2$  THE    MIRROR. 

town  :  when  he  descants  on  all  these  particulars,  with 
that  smile  of  self  complacency  which  sits  for  ever  on 
his  cheek,  he  is  as  much  a  pedant  as  his  quondam 
tutor,  who  recites  verses  from  Pindar,  tells  stories 
out  of  Herodotus,  and  talks  for  an  hour  on  the  ener- 
gy of  the  Greek  particles. 

But  Mr.  Daisey  is  struck  dumb  by  the  approach  of 
his  brother  Sir  Thomas,  whose  pedantry  goes  a  pitch 
higher,  and  pours  out  all  the  intelligence  of  France 
and  Italy,  whence  the  young  baronet  is  just  returned, 
after  a  tour  of  fifteen  months  over  all  the  kingdoms 
of  the  continent.  Talk  of  music,  he  cuts  you  short 
with  the  history  of  the  first  singer  at  Naples  ;  of 
painting,  he  runs  you  down  with  a  description  of  the 
gallery  at  Florence  ;  of  architecture,  he  overwhelms 
you  with  the  dimensions  of  St.  Peter's}  or  the  great 
church  at  Antwerp  ;  or,  if  you  leave  the  province  of 
art  altogether,  and  introduce  the  name  of  a  river  or 
hill,  he  instantly  deluges  you  with  the  Rhine,  or 
makes  you  dizzy  with  the  height  of  Etna,  or  Mont 
Blanc. 

Miss  will  have  no  difficulty  of  owning  her  great 
aunt  to  be  a  pedant,  when  she  talks  all  the  time  of 
dinner  on  the  composition  of  the  pudding,  or  the 
seasoning  of  the  mince-pies  ;  or  enters  into  a  dis- 
quisition ofi  the  figure  of  the  damask  table-cloth,  with 
a  word  or  two  on  the  thrift  of  making  one's  own 
linen  :  but  the  young  lady  will  be  surprised  when  I 
inform  her,  that  her  own  history  of  last  Thursday's 
assembly,  with  the  episode  of  Lady  Di's  feather,  and 
the  digression  to  the  qualities  of  Mr.  Frizzle  the  hair- 
dresser, was  also  a  piece  of  downright  pedantry. 

Mrs.  Caudle  is  guilty  of  the  same  weakness,  when 
she  recounts  the  numberless  witticisms  of  her  daugh- 
ter Emmy,  describes  the  droll  figure  her  little  Bill 
made  yesterday  at  trying  on  his  first  pair  of  breeches, 
and  informs  that  Bobby  has  got  seven  teeth,  and  is 
just  cutting  an  eighth,  though  he  will  be  but  nine 


THE    MIRROR.  2j 

months  old  next  Wednesday  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  Nor  is  her  pedantry  less  disgusting,  when 
she  proceeds  to  enumerate  the  virtues  and  good  qua- 
lities of  her  husband  ;  though  this  last  species  is  so 
uncommon,  that  it  may,  perhaps,  be  admitted  into 
conversation  for  the  sake  of  variety. 
.  Muckworm  is  the  meanest  of  pedants  when  he  tells 
you  of  the  scarcity  of  money  at  present,  and  that  he 
is  amazed  how  people  can  afford  to  live  as  they  do  ; 
that  for  his  part  though,  he  has  a  tolerable  fortune, 
he  finds  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  command  cash  for 
his  occasions  ;  that  trade  is  so  dead,  and  debts  so  ill 
paid  at  present,  that  he  was  obliged  to  sell  some 
shares  of  bank-stock  to  make  up  the  price  of  his  last 
purchase  ;  and  had  actually  countermanded  a  service 
of  plate,  else  he  should  have  been  obliged  to  strike 
several  names  out  of  the  list  of  his  weekly  pension- 
ers ;  and  that  this  apology  was  sustained  the  other 
day  by  the  noble  company  (giving  you  a  list  of  three 
or  four  peers,  and  their  families)  who  did  him  the 
honour  to  eat  a  bit  of  mutton  with  him.  All  this, 
however,  is  true.  As  i&  also  another  anecdote,  which 
Muckworm  forgot  to  mention  :  his  first  cousin  dined 
that  day  with  the  servants,  who  took  compassion  on 
the  lad,  after  he  had  been  turned  down  stairs,  with  a 
refusal  of  twenty  pounds  to  set  him  up  in  the  trade 
of  a  shoe-maker. 

There  is  pedantry  in  every  disquisition,  however 
masterly  it  may  be,  that  stops  the  general  conversa- 
tion of  the  company.  When  Silius  delivers  that  sort 
of  lecture  he  is  apt  to  get  into,  though  it  is  support- 
ed by  the  most  extensive  information  and  the  clearest 
discernment,  it  is  still  pedantry  ;  and,  while  I  admire 
the  talents  of  Silius,  I  cannot  help  being  uneasy  at 
his  exhibition  of  them.  In  the  course  of  this  disser- 
tation, the  farther  a  man  proceeds,  the  more  he 
seems  to  acquire  strength  and  inclination  for  the  pro- 
gress.    Last  night  after  supper,  Silius  began  upon 


24  THE   MIRROR. 

Protestantism,  proceeded  to  the  Irish  massacre,  went 
through  the  revolution,  drew  the  character  of  King 
William,  repeated  anecdotes  of  Schomberg,  and  end- 
ed at  a  quarter  past  twelve,  by  delineating  the  course 
of  the  Boyne,  in  half  a  bumper  of  port,  upon  my 
best  table  ;  which  river,  happening  to  overflow  its 
banks,  did  infinite  damage  to  my  cousin  Sophy's, 
white  satin  petticoat. 

In  short,  everything,  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  is 
pedantry,  which  tends  to  destroy  that  equality  of 
conversation  which  is  necessary  to  the  perfect  ease 
and  good  humour  of  the  company.  Every  one  would 
be  struck  with  the  unpoliteness  of  that  person's  be- 
haviour, who  should  help  himself  to  a  whole  plate 
of  pease  or  strawberries  which  some  friend  had  sent 
him  for  a  rarity  in  the  beginning  of  the  season.— 
Now,  conversation  is  one  of  those  good  things  of 
which  our  guests  or  companions  are  equally  intitled 
to  a  share  as  of  any  other  constituent  part  of  the 
entertainment ;  and  it  is  as  essential  a  want  of  po- 
liteness to  engross  the  one,  as  to  monopolize  the 
other. 

Besides,  it  unfortunately  happens,  that  we  are  very- 
inadequate  judges  of  tke  value  of  our  own  discourse, 
or  the  rate  at  which  the  dispositions  of  our  compa- 
ny will  incline  them  to  hold  it.  The  reflections  we 
make,  and  the  stories  we  tell,  are  to  be  judged  of 
by  others,  who  may  hold  a  very  different  opinion  of 
their  acuteness  or  their  humour.  It  will  be  prudent, 
therefore,  to  consider,  that  the  dish  we  bring  to  this 
entertainment,  however  pleasing  to  our  own  taste, 
may  prove  but  moderately  palatable  to  those  we  mean 
to  treat  with  it  ;  and  that  to  every  man,  as  well  as 
ourselves,  (except  a  few  very  humble  ones,)  his  own 
conversation  is  the  plate  of  pease  or  strawberries. 


THE    MXHR0B.  35 


No.  VI.  SATURDAY,  FEBRUARY  13. 

Nee  excitatur  classico  miles  true*, 

Nee  horret  iratum  mare  ; 
Forumque  vitat,  et  ouperba  civium 

Potentiorum  limina.  Hor. 

GREAT  talents  are  usually  attended  with  a  pro- 
portional desire  of  exerting  them  ;  and,  indeed,  were 
it  otherwise,  they  would  be,  in  a  great  measure,  use- 
less to  those  who  possess  them,  as  well  as  to  society. 

But,  while  this  disposition  generally  leads  men  of 
high  parts  and  high  spirit  to  take  a  share  in  active 
life,  by  engaging  in  the  pursuits  of  business  or  am- 
bition, there  are,  amidst  the  variety  of  human  cha- 
racter, some  instances,  in  which  persons  eminently 
possessed  of  those  qualities  give  way  to  a  contrary 
disposition. 

A  man  of  an  aspiring  mind  and  nice  sensibility 
may,  from  a  wrong  direction,  or  a  romantic  excess 
of  spirit,  find  it  difficult  to  submit  to  the  ordinary 
pursuits  of  life.  Filled  with  enthusiastic  ideas  of 
the  glory  of  a  general,  a  senator,  or  a  statesman,  he 
may  look  with  indifference,  or  even  with  disgust,  on 
the  less  brilliant,  though,  perhaps,  not  less  useful 
occupations,  of  the  physician,  the  lawyer,  or  the 
trader. 

My  friend  Mr.  Umphraville  is  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  great  talents  thus  lost  to  himself  and  to 
society.  The  singular  opinions  which  have  influ- 
enced his  conduct,  I  have  often  heard  him  attempt, 
with  great  warmth,  to  defend. 

"  In  the  pursuit  of  an  ordinary  profession,"  wouLl 
he  say,  "  a  man  of  spirit  and  sensibility,  while  he 
«*  is  subjected  to  disgusting  occupations,  finds  it  ne- 
"  cessary  to  submit  with  patience,  nay,  often  with 
"  the  appearance  of  satisfaction,  to  what  he  will  be 
u  apt  to  esteem  dullness,  folly,  or  impertinence,  in 


26  THE    MIRROR. 

"  those  from  whose  countenance,  or  opinion,  he 
"  hopes  to  derive  success  ;  and,  while  he  pines  in 
"  secret  at  so  irksome  a  situation,  perhaps,  amidst 
"  the  crowds  with  whom  he  converses,  he  may  not 
"  find  a  friend  to  whom  he  can  communicate  his 
"  sorrows. 

"  If,  on  the  other  hand,"  he  would  add,  "  he  be- 
"  takes  himself  to  retirement,  it  is  true  he  cannot 
"  hope  for  an  opportunity  of  performing  splendid 
"  actions,  or  of  gratifying  a  passion  for  glory  ;  but 
H  if  he  attain  not  all  that  he  wishes,  he  avoids  much 
•*  of  what  he  hates.  Within  a  certain  range  he  will 
"  be  master  of  his  occupations  and  his  company  ; 
"  his  books  will,  in  part,  supply  the  want  of  society  ; 
"  and,  in  contemplation  at  least,  he  may  often  enjoy 
"  those  pleasures  from  which  fortune  has  precluded 
"  him. 

"  If  the  country,  as  will  generally  happen,  be  the 
"  place  of  his  retirement,  it  will  afford  a  variety  of 
H  objects  agreeable  to  his  temper.  In  the  prospect 
"  of  a  lofty  mountain,  an  extensive  plain,  or  the 
•*  unbounded  ocean,  he  may  gratify  his  taste  for  the 
"  sublime  ;  while  the  lonely  vale,  the  hollow  bank, 
"  or  the  shady  wood,  will  present  him  a  retreat 
"  suited  to  the  thoughtfulness  of  his  disposition.'* 

Such  are  the  sentiments  which  have  formed  the 
character  of  Mr.  Umphraville,  which  have  regulated 
the  choice  and  tenor  of  his  life. 

His  father,  a  man  of  generosity  and  expence  be- 
yond his  fortune,  though  that  had  once  been  consi- 
derable, left  him,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  full  of 
the  high  sentiments  natural,  at  these  years,  to  a 
young  gentleman  brought  up  as  the  heir  of  an  an- 
cient family,  and  a  large  estate,  with  a  very  incon- 
siderable income  to  support  them  ;  for  though  the 
remaining  part  of  the  family -fortune  still  afforded 
him  a  rent-roll  of  10001.  a-year,  his  clear  revenue 
could  scarcely  be  estimated  at  3001. 


THE   MIRROR.  27 

Mr.  Umphravillej  though  he  wanted  not  a  relish 
for  polite  company  and  elegant  amusements,  was 
more  distinguished  for  an  ardent  desire  of  know- 
ledge ;  in  consequence  of  which  he  had  made  an  un- 
common progress  in  several  branches  of  science. 
The  classical  writers  of  ancient  and  modern  times, 
but  especially  the  former,  were  those  from  whose 
works  he  felt  the  highest  pleasure  ;  yet  he  had, 
among  other  branches  of  learning,  obtained  a  con- 
siderable knowledge  of  jurisprudence,  and  was  a  to- 
lerable proficient  in  mathematics. 

On  these  last  circumstances  his  friends  founded 
their  hopes  of  his  rising  in  the  world.  One  part  of 
them  argued,  from  the  progress  he  had  made  in  ju- 
risprudence, that  he  would  prove  an  excellent  law- 
yer ;  the  other,  that  his  turn  for  mathematics  would 
be  an  useful  qualification  in  a  military  life  ;  and  all 
agreed  in  the  necessity  of  his  following  some  pro- 
fession in  which  he  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
repairing  his  fortune. 

Mr.  Umphraville,  however,  had  very  different 
sentiments.  Though  he  had  studied  the  science  of 
jurisprudence  with  pleasure,  and  would  not  have 
declined  the  application  of  its  principles,  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  legislature,  he  felt  no  great  inclination  to 
load  his  memory  with  the  rules  of  our  municipal 
law,  or  to  occupy  himself  in  applying  them  to  the 
uninteresting  disputes  of  individuals  :  and,  though 
he  neither  wanted  a  taste  for  the  art,  nor  a  passion 
for  the  glory  of  a  soldier,  he  was  full  as  little  dis- 
posed to  carry  a  pair  of  colours  at  a  review,  or  to 
line  the  streets  in  procession.  Nor  were  his  objec- 
tions to  other  plans  of  bettering  his  fortune,  either 
at  home  or  abroad,  less  unsurmountble. 

In  short,  after  deliberating  on  the  propositions  of 
his  friends,  and  comparing  them  with  Ins  own  feel- 
ings, Mr.  Umphraville  concluded,  that,  as  he  could 
not  enter  into  the   world  in  a   way  suited  to  his  in- 

VOL.  i.  d 


28  THE   MIRROR. 

clination  and  temper,  the  quiet'and  retirement  of  a 
country-life,  though  with  a  narrow  fortune,  would 
be  more  conducive  to  his  happiness  than  the  pursuit 
of  occupations  to  which  he  felt  an  aversion,  even 
should  they  be  attended  with  a  greater  degree  of  suc- 
cess than,  from  that  circumstance,  he  judged  to  be 
probable. 

Agreeably  to  this  opinion  he  took  his  resolution  ; 
and,  notwithstanding  the  opposition  of  his  friends, 
retired,  a  few  months  after  his  father's  death,  to  his 
estate  in  the  country,  where  he  has  lived  upwards  of 
forty  years  ;  his  family,  since  the  death  of  his  mo- 
ther, a  lady  of  uncommon  sense  and  virtue,  who  sur- 
vived her  husband  some  time,  having  consisted  only 
of  himself,  and  an  unmarried  sister,  of  a  disposition 
similar  to  his  own. 

Neither  his  circumstances  nor  inclination  led  Mr. 
Umphraville  to  partake  much  of  the  jollity  of  his 
neighbours.  His  farm  has  never  exceeded  what  he 
found  absolutely  necessary  for  the  conveniency  of 
his  little  family  ;  and  though  he  employed  himself 
for  a  few  years  in  extending  his  plantations  over  the 
neighbouring  grounds,  even  that  branch  of  industry 
he  soon  laid  aside,  from  a  habit  of  indolence, 
which  has  daily  grown  upon  him  ;  and  since  it  has 
been  dropped,  his  books,  and  sometimes  his  gun, 
with  the  conversation  of  his  sister,  and  a  few  friends, 
who  now  and  then  visit  him,  entirely  occupy  his 
time. 

In  this  situation,  Mr.  Umphraville  has  naturally 
contracted  several  peculiarities,  both  of  manner  and 
opinion.  They  are,  however,  of  a  kind  which  nei- 
ther lessen  the  original  politeness  of  the  one,  nor 
weaken  the  natural  force  and  spirit  of  the  other.  In 
a  word,  though  he  has  contracted  rust,  it  is  the  rust 
of  a  great  mind,  which,  while  it  throws  a  certain 
melancholy  reverence,  around   its   possessor,  rather 


THE   MIRROR.  29 

enhances  than  detracts   from   the   native  beauty  and 
dignity  of  his  character. 

These  particulars  will  suffice  for  introducing  this 
gentleman  to  my  readers,  and  I  may  afterwards  take 
occasion  to  gratify  such  of  them  as  wish  to  know 
somewhat  more  of  a  life  and  opinions  with  which  I 
laave  long  been  intimately  acquainted. 


No.  VII.  TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY,  16. 

Indocilis  privata  lcqui.  Luc. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 

SIR, 

I  AM  a  sort  of  retainer  to  the  muses  ;  and,  though 
I  cannot  boast  of  much  familiarity  with  themselves, 
hold  a  subordinate  intimacy  with  several  branches  of 
their  family.  I  never  made  verses,  but  I  can  re- 
peat several  thousands.  Though  I  am  not  a  writer, 
I  am  reckoned  a  very  ready  expounder  of  enigmas  ; 
and  I  have  given  many  good  hints  towards  the  com- 
position of  some  favourite  rebuses  and  charades.  I 
have  also  a  very  competent  share  of  classical  learn- 
ing ;  I  can  construe  Latin  when  there  is  an  English 
version  on  the  opposite  column,  and  read  the  Greek 
character  with  tolerable  facility  ;  I  speak  a  little 
French,  andean  make  shift  to  understand  the  subject 
Italian  opera. 

With  these  qualifications,  Sir,  I  am  held  in  con- 
siderable estimation  by  the  wits  of  both  sexes.  I 
am  sometimes  allowed  to  clap  first  at  a  play,  and 
pronounce  a  firm  encore  after  a  fashionable  song.  I 
am  consulted    by   several    ladies   before   they   stick 


oV  -THE   MIRROR. 

their  pin  into  the  catalogue  of  the  circulating  library  ,; 
and  have  translated  to  some  polite  companies  all  the 
mottos  of  your  paper,  except  the  last,  which,  being 
somewhat  crabbed,  I  did  not  chuse  to  risk  my  credit 
by  attempting.  I  have  at  last  ventured  to  put  my- 
self into  print  in  the  Mirror :  and  send  you  infor- 
mation of  a  scheme  I  have  formed  for  making  my 
talents  serviceable  to  the  republic  of  letters. 

Every  one  must  have  observed  the  utility  of  a  pro- 
per selection  of  names  to  a  play  or  a  novel.  The 
bare  sounds  of  Monimia  or  Imoinda  set  a  tender- 
hearted lady  a  crying  ;  and  a  letter  from  Edward  to 
Maria  contains  a  sentiment  in  the  very  title. 

Were  I  to  illustrate  this  by  an  opposite  example, 
as  schoolmasters  give  exercises  of  bad  Latin,  the 
truth  of  my  assertion  would  appear  in  a  still  stronger 
light. 

Suppose,  Sir,  one  had  a  mind  to  write  a  very  pa- 
thetic story  of  the  disastrous  loves  of  a  young  lady 
and  a  young  gentleman,  the  first  of  whom  was  called 
Gubbins,  and  the  latter  Gubblestones,  two  very  res- 
pectable names  in  some  parts  of  our  neighbour- 
country.  The  Gubbinses,  from  an  ancient  family 
feud,  had  a  mortal  antipathy  at  the  Gubblestoneses  ; 
this,  however,  did  not  prevent  the  attachment  of 
the  heir  of  the  last  to  the  heiress  of  the  former  ;  an 
attachment  begun  by  accident,  increased  by  acquaint- 
ance, and  nourished  by  mutual  excellence.  But  the 
hatred  of  the  fathers  was  unconquerable  ;  and  old 
Gubbins  having  intercepted  a  letter  from  young 
Gubblestones,  breathed  the  most  horrid  demmcia- 
tioiis  of  vengeance  against  his  daughter,  if  ever  he 
should  discover  the  smallest  intercourse  between  her 
and  the  son  of  his  enemy  ;  and,  farther,  effectually 
to  seclude  any  chance  of  an  union  with  so  hatred  a 
name,  he  instantly  proposed  a  marriage  between  her 
and  a  young  gentleman'  lately  returned  from  his 
travels,  a  Mr.   Clutterbuck,  who  had  seen  her  at  a 


THE   MIRROR.  3i 

ball,  and  was  deeply  smitten  with  her  beauty.  On 
being  made  acquainted  with  this  intended  match, 
Gubblestones  grew  almost  frantic  with  grief  and 
despair.  Wandering  round  the  house  where  his 
loved  Gubbins  was,  confined,  he  chanced  to  meet  Mr* 
Clutterbuck  hasting  to  an  interview  with  his  destined 
bride.  Stung  with  jealousy  and  rage,  reckless  of 
life,  and  regardless  of  the  remonstrances  of  his  rival, 
he  drew,  and  attacked  him  with  desperate  fury. — 
Both  swords  were  sheathed  at  once  in  the  breasts  of 
the  combatants.  Clutterbuck  died  on  the  spot:  his 
antagonist  lived  but  to  be  carried  to  the  house  of  his 
implacable  enemy,  and  breathed  his  last  at  the  feet 
of  his  mistress.  The  dying  words  of  Gubblestones, 
the  succeeding  phrenzy  and  death  of  Gubbins,  the 
relenting  sorrow  of  their  parents,  with  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  tomb  in  which  Gubbins,  Gubblestones, 
and  Clutterbuck,  were  laid,  finish  the  piece,  and 
would  leave  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  highest 
degree  of  melancholy  and  distress,  were  it  not  for 
the  unfortunate  sounds  which  compose  the  names  of 
the  actors  in  this  eventful  story  ;  yet  these  names, 
Mr*  Mirror,  are  really  and  truly  right  English 
surnames,  and  have  as  good  a  title  to  be  unfortunate 
as  those  of  Mordaunt,  Montague,  or  Howard. 

Nor  is  it  only  in  the  sublime  or  the  pathetic  that 
a  happy  choice  of  names  is  essential  to  good  writing. 
Comedy  is  so  much  beholden  to  this  article,  that  I 
have  known  some  with  scarcely  any  wit  ®r  character 
but  what  was  contained  in  the  Dramatis  Persons. — ■ 
Every  other  species  of  writing,  in  which  humour  or 
character  is  to  be  personified,  is  in  the  same  predic- 
ament, and  depends  for  great  part  of  its  applause  on 
the  knack  of  hitting  off  a  lucky  allusion  from  the 
name  to  the  person.  Your  brother  essayists  have 
been  particularly  indebted  to  this  invention  for  sup- 
plying them  with  a  very  necessary  material  in  the 
construction  of  their  papers.  In  the  Spectator,  I 
s  2 


32  THE    MIRROR. 

find,  from  an  examination  of  my  notes  on  the  sub- 
ject, there  are  532  names  of  characters  and  corres- 
pondents, 394  of  which  are  descriptive  and  charac- 
teristic. 

Having  thus  shewn  the  importance  of  the  art  of 
name-making,  I  proceed  to  inform  you  of  my  plan 
for  assisting  authors  in  this  particular,  and  saving 
them  that  expence  of  time  and  study  which  the  in- 
vention of  names  proper  for  different  purposes  must 
occasion. 

I  have,  from  a  long  course  of  useful  and  extensive 
reading,  joined  to  an  uncommon  strength  of  memory, 
been  enabled  to  form  a  kind  of  dictionary  of  names 
for  all  sorts  of  subjects,  pathetic,  sentimental,  seri- 
ous, satyrical,  or  merry.  For  novelists,  I  have  made 
a  collection  of  the  best-sounding  English,  or  English- 
like, trench,  or  French-like  names;  I  say,  the  best 
sounding,  sound  being  the  only  thing  necessary  in 
that  department.  For  comic  writers,  and  essayists 
of  your  tribe,  Sir,  I  have  made  up,  from  the  works 
of  former  authors,  as  well  as  from  my  own  invention, 
a  list  of  names,  with  the  characters  or  subjects  to 
which  they  allude,  prefixed.  A  learned  friend  has 
furnished  me  with  a  parcel  cf  signatures  for  political, 
philosophical,  and  religious  essayists  in  the  news- 
papers, among  which  are  no  fewer  than  eighty-six 
compounds  beginning  with  Philo,  which  are  all  from 
four  to  seven  syllables  long,  and  cannot  fail  to  have 
a  powerful  tendency  towards  the  edification  and  con- 
viction of  country-readers. 

For  the  use  of  serious  poetry,  I  have  a  set  of 
names,  tragic,  elegiac,  pastoral,  and  legendary ;  for 
songs,  satires,  and  epigrams,  I  have  a  parcel  pro- 
perly corresponding  to  those  departments.  A  column 
is  subjoined,  shewing  the  number  of  feet  whereof 
they  consist,  that  being  a  requisite  chiefly  to  be  at- 
tended to,  in  names  destined  for  the  purposes  of  po- 
etry.    Some  of  them  indeed,  are  so  happUy  contrived* 


THE    MIRROR.  38 

that,  by  means  of  an  easy  and  natural  contraction, 
they  can  be  shortened,  or  lengthened  (like  a  pocket- 
telescope),  according  to  the  structure  of  the  line  in 
which  they  are  to  be  introduced  ;  others,  by  the  as- 
sistance of  proper  interjections,  are  ready  made  into 
smooth'  flowing  hexameters,  and  will  be  found  ex- 
tremely useful,  particularly  to  our  writers  of  tragedy. 
All  these,  Sir,  the  fruits  of  several  years  labour 
aild  industry,  I  am  ready  to  communicate  for  an  ade- 
quate consideration,  to  authors,  or  other  persons 
whom  they  may  suit.  Be  pleased,  therefore,  to  in- 
form your  correspondents,  that,  by  applying  to  your 
publisher,  they  may  be  informed,  in  the  language  of 
Falstaff,  "  where  a  commodity  of  good  names  is  to 
"  be  bought."  As  for  your  own  particular,  Sir,  I 
am  ready  to  attend  you  gratis,  at  any  time  you  may 
stand  in  need  of  my  assistance  ;  or  you  may  write 
out  your  papers  blank,  and  send  them  to  me  to  fill 
up  the  names  of  the  parties. 

I  am  yours,  Sec. 

NOMENCLATOR. 


To  Correspondents. 

"  The  editor  has  to  return  thanks  to  numberless 
correspondents  for  their  favours  lately  received  ;  he 
begs  leave,  at  the  same  time,  to  acquaint  them,  that 
as  many  inconveniencies  would  arise  from  a  particu- 
lar acknowledgment  of  every  letter,  he  must  hence- 
forward be  excused  from  making  it;  they  may,  how- 
ever, rest  assured  of  the  strictest  attention  and  im- 
partiality in  regard  to  their  communications. — As  to 
the  insertion  of  papers  sent  him,  he  will  be  allowed 
to  suggest,  that,  from  the  nature  of  his  publication, 
the  acceptance  or  refusal  of  an  essay  is  no  criterion 
of  its  merit,  nor  of  the  opinion  in  which  it  is  held  by 
the  editor.  A  performance  may  be  improper  for  the 
Mirror,  as  often  on  account  of  its  rising  above,  as 


$4,  THE    MIRROR. 

of  its  falling  below  the  level  of  such  a  work,  which 
is  peculiarly  circumscribed,  not  only  in  its  subjects, 
but  in  the  manner  of  treating  them.  The  same  cir- 
cumstance will  often  render  it  necessary  to  alter  or 
abridge  the  productions  of  correspondents  ;  a  liberty 
for  which  the  editor  hopes  their  indulgence,  and 
which  he  will  use  with  the  utmost  caution." 


No.  VIII.  SATURDAY,  FEBRUARY  20. 

Inspicere  tanquam  in  speculum 

Vkus  omnium  jubeo.  Tbr. 

IT  was  with  regret  that  the  editor  found  himself 
under  the  necessity  of  abridging  the  following  letter, 
communicated  by  an  unknown  correspondent. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 
AS  I  was  walking  one  afternoon,  about  thirty  years 
ago,  by  the  Egyptian  side  of  the  Red  Sea,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Babelmandel,  I  accidentally  met 
with  a  Dervise.  How  we  forthwith  commenced  ac- 
quaintance ;  how  I  went  with  him  to  his  hermitage  ; 
how  our  acquaintance  improved  into  intimacy,  and 
our  intimacy  into  friendship  ;  how  we  conversed  about 
every  thing,  both  in  heaven  above,  and  in  the  earth 
beneath ;  how  the  Dervise  fell  sick,  and  how  I,  hav- 
ing some  skill  in  medicine,  administered  to  his  reco- 
very ;  how  this  strengthened  his  former  regard  by 
the  additional  tie  of  gratitude  ;  how,  after  a  space, 
I  tired  of  wa Iking  by  the  Red  Sea  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Babelmandel,  and  fancied  I  should  walk  with 
more  security  and  satisfaction  by  the  side  of  Forth ; 


THE    MIRROR*  35 

are  circumstances,  that,  after  you  shall  be  more  in- 
terested in  my  life  and  conversation,  I  may  venture 
lo  lay  before  you. 

In  the  mean  while,  suffice  it  to  say,  that  my  part- 
ing with  the  Dervise  was  very  tender ;  and  that,  as 
a  memorial  of  his  friendship,  he  presented  me  with 
a  mirror.  I  confess  frankly,  that  considering  the 
poverty  of  my  friend,  and  his  unaffected  manner  cf 
offering  it,  I  supposed  his  present  of  little  intrinsic 
value.  Yet,  looking  at  it,  and  wishing  to  seem  as 
sensible  of  its  worth  as  possible,  "  This,"  "  said  I, 
may  be  a  very  useful  mirror.  "  As  it  is  of  a  con- 
"  venient  size,  I  may  carry  it  in  my  pocket ;  and, 
"  if  I  should  happen  to  be  in  a  public  company,  it 
u  may  enable  me  to  wipe  from  my  face  any  acci- 
*'  dental  dust,  or  to  adjust  the  posture  of  my  peri- 
"  wig."  For,  Sir,  at  that  time,  in  order  to  command 
some  respect  among  the  Mussulmen,  I  wore  a  peri- 
wig of  three  tails. 

"  That  mirror,"  said  the  Dervise,  looking  at  me 
with  great  earnestness,  "  is  of  higher  value  than 
"  you  suppose :  and  of  this,  by  the  following  account 
"  of  its  nature  and  uses,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  fully 
"  satisfied.  Of  mirrors,  some  are  convex,  and  re- 
"  present  their  object  of  a  size  considerably  dimi- 
"  nished  :  accordingly,  the  images  they  display  are 
"  extremely  beautiful.  A  company  of  people  repre- 
"  sented  by  this  mirror  shall  appear  without  spot  or 
u  blemish,  like  a  company  of  lovely  Sylphs.  Now, 
"  my  good  Christian  friend,  mine  is  not  a  convex 
*;  mirror.  Neither  is  it  concave  :  for  concave  mir- 
"  rors  have  just  an  opposite  effect ;  and,  by  enlarg- 
"  ing  the  object  they  represent,  would  render  even 
"  the  Houri  in  Paradise  as  hideous  as  the  witch  of 
M  Endoiyor  a  Pagan  fury.  In  short,  it  is  a  good 
M  plain  mirror,  intended  to  represent  things  just  as 
"  they  are,  but  with  properties  and  varieties  not  to 
M  be  met  with  in  common  {jlass,'' 


36  TttE    MIRROR. 

"  Whenever,"  continued  he,  "  you  entertain  any 
"  doubt  concerning  the  propriety  of  your  conduct, 
"  or  have  apprehensions  that  your  motives  arc  not 
"  exactly  what  you  conceive,  or  wish  them  to  be,  I 
"  advise  you  forthwith  to  consult  the  mirror.  You 
"  will  there  see  yourself  without  disguise  ;  and  be 
"  enabled,  not  merely  to  wipe  from  your  face  any 
"  accidental  dust,  or  to  adjust  your  periwig  of  three 
"  tails,  but  to  rectify  your  conduct,  and  adjust  your 
"  deportment/*  In  truth,  Sir,  1  have  made  this  ex- 
periment, according  to  the  direction  of  the  Dervise, 
so  oiun,  and  with  such  small  satisfaction  to  myself, 
that  I  am  heartily  sick  of  it,  1  have  consulted  my 
mirror  in  the  act  of  giving  alms,  expecting,  no  doubt, 
to  see  myself  charactered  with  the  softest  compas- 
sion, and,  behold  1  I  was  swollen  and  bloated  with 
ostentation.  Glowing  with  indignation,  as  1  conceiv- 
ed, against  the  vices  of  mankind,  and  their  blindness 
to  real  merit,  I  have  looked  in  the  mirror,  and  seen 
the  redness  of  anger,  the  flushings  of  disappointed 
ambition.  Very  lately,  a' friend  of  mine  read  me  an 
essay  he  had  written ;  he  seemed  to  me  somewhat 
conscious  of  its  merit :  he  expected,  and  was  intitled 
to  some  applaur.e  ;  but,  said  I  to  myself,  "  I  will  ad- 
"  minister  to  no  man's  vanity,  nor  expose  my  friend 
"  by  encouraging  self-conceit ;"  and  so  observed  an 
ojtetmate  unyielding  silence.  I  looked  in  the  mirror, 
and  am  ashamed  to  tell  yen  my  motive  was  not  so 
pure. 

But,  instead  of  exposing  my  own  infirmities,  I 
will,  in  perfect  consistency  with  some  of  the  most 
powerful  principles  in  our  nature,  and  in  a  manner 
much  less  exceptionable  to  myself,  explain  the  pro- 
perties of  my  mirror,  by  the  views  it  gives  me  of 
other  men. 

"  Whenever,"  continued  the  Dervise,  "  you  have 
"  any  doubt  concerning  the  conduct  of  another  per- 
"  son,  take   an  opportunity,  and,  when   he   is  least 


THE    MIRROR.  37 

u  aware,  catch  a  copy  of  his  face  in  your  mirror." 
It  would  do  your  heart  good,  Sir,  if  you  delight  in 
that  species  of  moral  criticism  which  some  people 
denominate  scandal,  to  see  the  discoveries  1  have 
made.  Many  a  grave  physician  have  I  seen  laying 
his  head  to  one  side,  hxing  his  solemn  eye  on  the 
far  corner  of  a  room,  or  poring  with  steady  gaze  on 
his  watch,  and  seeming  to  count  the  beats  of  his  pa- 
tient's pulse,  when,  in  fact,  he  was  numbering  in 
his  own  mind  the  guineas  accruing  from  his  circle  of 
morning  visits,  or  studying  what  fine  speech  he  should 
make  to  my  lady  duchess  ;  or,  if  patient  were  a  fair 
patient — But  here  I  would  look  no  longer. 

I  have  often  carried  my  mirror  to  church  ;  and, 
sitting  in  a  snug  corner,  have  catched  the  flaming 
orator  of  the  pulpit  in  many  a  rare  grimace,  and  ex- 
pressive gesture  ;  expressive,  not  of  humility,  but 
of  pride  ;  not  of  any  desire  to  communicate  instruc- 
tion, but  to  procure  applause ;  not  to  explain  the  gos- 
pel, but  to  exhibit  the  preacher. 

"  This  mirror,"  said  the  Mussulman,  continuing 
his  valedictory  speech,  "  will  not  only  display  your 
"  acquaintance  as  they  really  are,  but  as  they  wish 
"  to  be  :  and,  for  this  purpose,"  shewing  me  the 
way,  "  you  have  only  to  hold  it  in  a  particular  posi- 
"  tion."  From  the  use  of  the  mirror,  holding  it  as 
the  Dervise  desired  me,  I  confess  I  have  received 
special  amusement.  How  many  persons  hideously 
deformed  have  appeared  most  divinely  beautiful ;  how 
many  dull  fellows  have  become  amazing  clever  ;  how 
many  shrivelled  cheeks  have  suddenly  claimed  a 
youthful  bloom  !  Yet,  I  must  confess,  Low  surprising 
soever  the  confession  may  appear,  that  I  have  found 
mankind,  in  general,  very  well  satisfied  with  their 
talents  :  and,  as  for  as  regards  moral  and  religious 
improvement,  I  recollect  very  few  instances  of  per- 
sons who  wished  for  changes  in  their  present  con- 
dition. On  the   contrary,  I  have  met  with  other  ex- 


38  THE    MIRROR. 

amples  ;  and  have  seen  persons  not  a  little  solicitous 
to  acquire  the  use  of  some  fashionable  impieties  and 
immoralities.  I  have  seen  delicate  females,  to  say- 
nothing  of  dainty  gentlemen,  wishing  to  forget  their 
catechism  ;  striving  to  overcome  their  reluctances, 
and  meditating  in  their  own  minds  the  utterance  of 
some  fashionable  piece  of  raillery  against  religion  ; 
yet,  like  the  amen  of  Macbeth,  I  have  often  seen  it 
stick  in  their  throat. 

"  But,'*  continued  the  Dervise,  "  if  you  hold  this 
11  mirror  in  a  fit  posture,  it  will  not  only  shew  you 
"  men  as  they  are,  or  as  they  wish  to  be,  but  with 
"  the  talents,  with  which  they  reckon  themselves  r^- 
"  tually  possessed  ;  and  in  that  very  character  or  si- 
«  tuation  which  they  hold  most  suited  to  their  abili- 
<«  ties.0  Now  this  property  of  the  Mussulman's 
mirror  has  given  me  more  amusement  than  any  other. 
By  this  means  I  have  seen  a  whole  company  undergo 
instantaneous  and  strange  transformation.  I  have 
seen  the  unwieldy  burgess  changed  into  a  slender 
gentleman ;  the  deep  philosopher  become  a  man  of  the 
world  ;  the  laborious  merchant  converted  into  a  fox- 
hunter  ;  the  mechanic's  wife  in  the  guise  of  a  coun- 
tess ;  and  the  pert  scrivener  become  a  cropped  en- 
sign. I  have  seen  those  grave  personages,  whom 
you  may  observe  daily  issuing  from  their  alleys  at 
noon  with  white  wigs,  black  coats  buttoned,  and  in- 
clining to  gray,  with  a  cane  in  one  hand,  and  the 
ether  stationed  at  their  side-pocket,  beating  the  streets 
for  political  intelligence,  and  diving  afterwards  into 
their  native  lanes,  or  rising  in  a  coffee-house  in  the 
full  dignity  of  a  spectacled  nose  ;  I  have  seen  them 
moving  in  my  mirror  in  the  shape  of  statesmen,  mi- 
nisters at  foreign  courts,  chancellors  of  England, 
judges,  justices  of  the  peace,  or  chief  magistrates 
in  electing  boroughs. 

Now,  Sir,  as  you  have  engaged  in  the  important 
business   of  instructing  the   public,  I  reckon  you  a 


THE   MIRROR.  39 

much  fitter  person  than  me  to  be  possessed  of  this 
precious  mirror.  By  these  presents,  therefore,  along 
with  a  paper  of  direction sr  I  consign  it  into  your  hands. 
All  that  I  demand  of  you  in  return,  is  to  use  this 
extraordinary  gift  in  a  proper  and  becoming  manner; 
for,  like  every  other  excellent  gift,  it  is  liable  to  be 
misused.  Therefore  be  circumspect ;  nor  let  any 
person  say  of  you,  that  you  make  use  of  a  false  glass, 
or  that  the  reflection  is  not  just,  or  that  the  represen- 
tation is  partial  ;  or,  lastly,  that  it  exhibits  broken, 
distorted,  or  unnatural  images.  In  full  confidence 
thaf  it  will  be  an  instrument  in  your  hands  for  the 
most  useful  purposes, 

I  am,  Sir, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

Vitreus. 


No.  IX.     TUESDAY,  FEBRUARY  23. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 

Sir, 

SOME  weeks  ago  I  was  called  from  my  retreat  in 
the  country,  where  I  have  passed  the  last  twenty 
years  in  the  enjoyment  of  ease  and  tranquillity,  by 
an  important  family-concern  which  made  it  necessary 
for  me  to  come  to  town. 

Last  Thursday  I  was  solicited  by  an  old  friend  to 
accompany  him  to  the  playhouse,  to  see  the  tragedy 
of  King  Lear ;  and,  by  way  of  inducement,  he  told 
me,  the  part  of  Lear  was  to  be  performed  by  an  ac- 
tor who  had  studied  the  character  under  the  English 
Roscius,  and  was  supposed  to  play  it  somewhat  in 
the  manner  of  that  great  master.    As  the  theatre 

▼ol.  i.  e 


40  THE    MIRROR. 

had  always  been  my  favourite  amusement,  I  did  not 
long  withstand  the  entreaties  of  my  friend;  and,  when 
I  reflected  that  Mr.  Garrick  was  now  gone  to  "  that 
M  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn  no  tra- 
u  veller  returns,"  I  felt  a  sort  of  tender  desire  to 
see  even  a  copy  of  that  great  original,  from  whose 
performances  I  had  often,  in  the  earlier  part  of  my 
life,  received  such  exquisite  pleasure. 

As  we  understood  the  house  was  to  be  crowded, 
we  went  at  an  early  hour,  and  seated  ourselves  in  the 
middle  of  the  pit,  so  as  not  only  to  see  the  play  to 
advantage,  but  also  to  have  a  full  view  of  the"  au- 
dience, which,  I  have  often  thought,  is  not  the  least 
pleasing  part  of  a  public  entertainment.  When  the 
boxes  began  to  fill,  I  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  in  con- 
templating the  beauties  of  the  present  times,  and 
amused  myself  with  tracing  in  the  daughters,  those 
features  which,  in  the  mothers  and  grandmothers, 
had  charmed  me  so  often. 

My  friend  pointed  out  to  me,  in  different  parts  of 
the  house,  some  of  the  reigning  toasts  of  our  times, 
but  so  changed,  that,  without,  his  assistance,  I  never 
should  have  been  able  to  find  them  out.  I  looked 
in  vain  for  that  form,  that  complexion,  and  those 
numberless  graces,  on  which  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  gaze  with  admiration.  But  this  change  was  not 
more  remarkable,  than  the  effect  it  had  upon  the 
beholders ;  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  the  silent 
neglect  with  which  those  once  celebrated  beauties 
were  now  treated,  by  much  too  severe  a  punishment 
for  that  pride  and  haughtiness  they  had  formerly  as- 
sumed. 

Whilst  1  was  amusing  myself  in  this  manner,  I 
observed,  that  some  of  the  upper-boxes  were  filled 
with  ladies,  whose  appearance  scon  convinced  mc 
that  they  were  of  an  order  of  females  more  desirous 
of  being  distinguished  for  beauty  than  for  virtue.  I 
could  not  refrain  from  expressing  some  disgust  at  see- 


THE   MIRROR.  41 

ing  those  unfortunate  creatures  sitting  thus  openly 
mingled  with  women  of  the  first  rank  and  fashion. 
"  Poh  I"  said  my  friend,  "  that  is  thought  nothing 
"  of  now-a-days;  and  every  body  seems  to  be  of  the 
u  same  opinion  with  the  celebrated  Countess  of  Dor- 
"  Chester,  mistress  of  King  James  II.  who  having 
u  seated  herself  on  the  same  bench  with  a  lady  of 
"  rigid  virtue,  the  other  immediately  shrunk  back, 
"  which  the  countess  observing,  said  with  a  smile, 
"  don't  be  afraid,  Madam ;  gallantry  is  not  catching/* 

As  I  was  going  to  reprove  my  friend  for  talking 
with  such  levity  of  a  matter  that  seemed  to  be  of  so 
serious  a  nature,  the  curtain  drew  up,  and  the  play 
began.  It  is  not  my  design,  Sir,  to  trouble  you  with 
any  remarks  on  the  performance  ;  the  purpose  of 
this  letter  is  to  request  of  you  to  take  some  notice 
of  a  species  of  indecorum,  that  appeared  altogether 
new  to  me,  and  which,  I  confess,  it  hurt  me  to  ob- 
serve. 

Before  the  end  of  the  first  act,  a  number  of  young 
men  came  in,  and  took  their  places  in  the  upper 
boxes,  amidst  those  unhappy  females  I  have  already 
mentioned.  I  concluded  that  these  persons  were  as 
destitute  of  any  pretension  to  birth  and  fashion,  as 
they  were  void  of  decency  of  manners  ;  but  1  was 
equally  surprised  and  mortified  to  find,  that  many  of 
them  were  of  the  first  families  of  the  kingdom.  You, 
Sir,  who  have  lived  in  the  world,  and  seen  the  gra- 
dual and  almost  imperceptible  progress  of  manners, 
will  not,  perhaps,  be  able  to  judge  of  my  astonish- 
ment, when  I  beheld  these  very  gentlemen  quit  their 
seats,  and  come  down  to  pay  their  respects  to  the 
ladies  in  the  lower  boxes.  The  gross  impropriety  of 
this  behaviour  raised  in  me  a  degree  of  indignation 
which  I  could  not,  without  difficulty,  restrain.  I  com- 
forted myself,  however,  with  the  hopes,,  that  those 
unthinking  youths  would  meet  with  such  a  reception 
from  the  women  of  honour,  as  would  effectually  check 


48  THE   MIRROR. 

this  indecency  ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  add,  that  I  could 
not  discern,  either  in  their  looks  or  manner,  those 
marks  of  disapprobation  which  I  had  made  my  ac- 
count with  perceiving.  Both  the  old  and  the  young, 
the  mothers  and  the  daughters,  seemed  rather  pleased 
when  these  young  men  of  rank  and  fortune  approach- 
ed them.  I  am  persuaded,  at  the  same  time,  that, 
were  they  to  think  but  for  a  moment  of  the  conse- 
quences, they  would  be  sensible  of  the  impropriety 
of  their  behaviour  in  this  particular.  I  must,  there- 
fore intreat  of  you,  Sir,  to  take  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity in  giving  your  sentiments  on  the  subject.  I 
am,  &c. 

A.  W. 

The  complaints  of  my  correspondent  are  not  with-* 
out  reason.  The  boundaries  betwixt  virtue  and  vice 
cannot  be  too  religiously  maintained  ;  and  every  thing 
that  tends  to  lessen,  in  any  degree,  the  respect  due 
to  a  woman  of  honour,  ought  ever  to  be  guarded 
against  with  the  utmost  caution. 

When  I  was  in  France,  I  observed  a  propriety  of 
behaviour  in  the  particular  mentioned  by  Mr.  A.  W. 
that  pleased  me  much.  Even  in  that  country,  looso 
as  we  imagine  the  manners  ihere  to  be,  no  body  who 
wishes  to  preserve  the  character  of  a  well-bred  gen- 
tleman is  ever  seen  at  a  place  of  public  resort,  in 
company  with  those  misguided  fair-ones,  who,  how- 
ever much  they  may  be  objects  of  pity  and  compas- 
sion, have  forfeited  all  title  to  respect  and  esteem. 
I  would  recommend  to  our  young  men  to  follow,  in 
this,  the  example  of  our  neighbours,  whom  they  are 
so  ready  to  imitate  in  less  laudable  instances.  To 
consider  it  only  in  this  view,  there  is  certainly  no 
greater  breach  of  politeness  than  that  which  has 
given  occasion  to  this  letter.  In  other  respects,  the 
consequences  are  truly  alarming.  When  every  dis- 
tinction is  removed  between  the  woman  of  virtue  and 


*8E    MlRJtOl.  43 

the  prostitute  ;  when  both  are  treated  with  equal 
attention  and  observance  ;  are  we  to  wonder  if  we 
find  an  alteration  of  the  manners  of  women  in  general, 
and  a  proportional  diminution  of  that  delicacy  which 
forms  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  respect- 
able part  of  the  sex  ? 

These  considerations  will,  I  hope,  prove  sufficient 
to  correct  this  abuse  in  our  young  gentlemen.  As 
to  my  fair  country-women,  it  is  ever  with  reluctance 
that  I  am  obliged  to  take  notice  of  any  little  impro- 
priety into  which  they  inadvertently  fall.  Let  them, 
however,  reflect,  that  a  certain  delicacy  of  sentiment 
and  of  manners  is  the  chief  ornament  of  the  female 
character,  and  the  best  and  surest  guardian  of  female 
honour.  That  once  removed,  there  will  remain,  in 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  less  difference  than  perhaps 
they  may  be  aware  of,  between  them  and  the  avow- 
edly licentious.  Let  them  also  consider,  that,  as  it 
is  unquestionably  in  their  power  to  form  and  correct 
the  manners  of  the  men,  so  they  are,  in  some  sort, 
accountable,  not  for  their  own  conduct  only,  but  also 
for  that  of  their  admirers. 

To  the  Juthoj'  of  the  Mirror. 

I  DO  not  mean  to  reflect,  Mr.  Mirror  ;  for  that 
is  your  business,  not  mine  ;  far  less  do  I  purpose  to 
pun,  when  I  told  you,  that  it  might  save  some  reflec- 
tions upon  yourself,  did  you  take  the  trouble  to  trans- 
late into  good  common  English,  those  same  Latin 
scraps,  or  mottos,  which  you  sometimes  hang  out  by 
way  of  sign-post  inscription,  at  the  top  of  your  paper. 
For,  consider,  Sir,  who  will  be  tempted  to  enter  a 
house  of  entertainment  offered  to  the  public,  when 
the  majority  can  neither  read  nor  understand  the  lan- 
guage in  which  the  bill  of  fare  is  drawn  and  held 
out  ?  I  am  a  Scotsman  of  a  good  plain  stomach,  who 
ean  eat  and  digest  any  thing ;  yet  would  I  like  t» 
£  2 


44  TtfE  Mirror. 

have  a  guess  at  what  was  to  be  expected  before  I  sit 
down  to  table.  Besides,  the  fair-sex,  Mr.  Mirror, 
for  whom  you  express  so  much  respect, — What  shall 
they  do  ?  Believe  me,  then,  Sir,  by  complying  with 
this  hint,  you  will  not  only  please  the  ladies,  but  now 
and  then  save  a  blush  in  their  company  to  some 
grown  gentlemen,  who  have  not  the  good  fortune  to 
be  so  learned  as  yourself.  Amongst  the  rest,  you 
will  oblige  one  who  has  the  honour  to  be 

Your  admirer  and  humble  servant, 

Ignoramus. 
Edinburgh,  Feb.  19,  1779. 

Mr.  Ignoramus  (whom  I  take  to  be  a  wiser  man 
than  he  gives  himself  out  for)  must  have  often  ob- 
served many  great  personages  contrive  to  be  unin- 
telligible in  order  to  be  respected. 

E 


No.  X.     SATURDAY,  FEBRUARY  27. 


■Id  arbitror 


Adprime  in  vita  esse  utile,  ne  quid  nimis.  TtR. 

REFINEMENT,  and  delicacy  of  taste,  are  the 
productions  of  advanced  society.  They  open  to  the 
mind  of  persons  possessed  of  them  a  field  of  elegant 
enjoyment ;  but  they  may  be  pushed  to  a  dangerous 
Extreme.  By  that  excess  of  sensibility  to  which  they 
lead  ;  by  that  vanity  which  they  flatter  ;  that  idea  of 
superiority  which  they  nourish  ;  they  may  unfit  their 
possessor  for  the  common  and  ordinary  enjoyments 
of  life  ;  and,  by  that  over-niceness  which  they  are  apt 
to  create,  they  may  mingle  somewhat  of  disgust  and 
uneasiness,  even  in  the  highest  and  finest  pleasures. 


THE    MIRROR.  45 

A  person  of  such  a  mind  will  often  miss  happiness 
where  .nature  intended  it  should  be  found,  and  seek 
for  it  where  it  is  not  to  be  met  with.  Disgust  and 
chagrin  will  frequently  be  his  companions,  while  fcess 
cultivated  minds  are  enjoying  pleasure  unmixed  and 
unalloyed. 

I  have  ever  considered  my  friend  Charles  Fleet- 
wood to  be  a  remarkable  instance  of  such  a  charac- 
ter. Mr.  Fleetwood  has  been  endowed  by  nature 
with  a  most  feeling  and  tender  heart.  Educated  to 
no  particular  profession,  his  natural  sensibility  has 
been  increased  by  a  life  of  inactivity,  chiefly  employed 
in  reading,  and  the  study  of  the  polite  arts,  which  has 
given  him  that  excess  of  refinement  I  have  described 
above,  that  injures  while  it  captivates. 

Last  summer  I  accompanied  him  in  an  excursion 
into  the  country.  Our  object  was  partly  air  and  ex- 
ercise, and  partly  to  pay  a  visit  to  some  of  our  friends. 

Our  first  visit  was  to  a  college-acquaintance,  re- 
markable for  that  old-fashioned  hospitality  which  still 
prevails  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  and  which  too 
often  degenerates  into  excess.  Unfortunately  for  us, 
we  found  with  our  friend  a  number  of  his  jovial  com- 
panions, whose  object  of  entertainment  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  ours.  Instead  of  wishing  to  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  the  country,  they  expressed  their  satis- 
faction at  the  meeting  of  so  many  old  acquaintance  ; 
because,  they  said,  it  would  add  to  the  mirth  and 
sociality  of  the  party.  Accordingly,  after  a  long,  and 
somewhat  noisy  dinner,  the  table  was  covered  with 
bottles  and  glasses  :  the  mirth  of  the  company  rose 
higher  at  every  new  toast ;  and,  though  their  drinking 
did  not  proceed  quite  the  length  of  intoxication,  the 
convivial  festivity  was  drawn  out,  with  very  little  in- 
termission, till  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Mr.  Fleet- 
wood's politeness  prevented  him  from  leaving  the 
company  ;  but  I,  who  knew  him,  saw  he  was  inwardly 
fretted  at  the  manner  in  which  his  time  was  spent 


46  THE     MIRR&R, 

during  a  fine  evening-,  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
parts  of  the  country.  The  mirth  of  the  company* 
winch  was  at  least  innocent,  was  lost  upon  him  :  their 
jokes  hardly  produced  a  smile  ;  or,  if  they  did,  it  was 
a  forced  one  :  even  the  good  humour  of  those  around 
him,^nstead  of  awakening  his  benevolence,  and  giv- 
ing- him  a  philanthrcpical  pleasure,  increased  his 
chagrin  ;  and  the  louder  the  company  laughed,  the 
graver  did  I  think,  Mr.  Fleetwood's  countenance 
became. 

After  having  remained  here  two  days,  our  time 
being  spent  pretty  much  in  the  manner  I  have  de- 
scribed, we  went  to  the  house  of  another  gentleman 
in  the  neighbourhood.  A  natural  soberness  of  mind, 
accompanied  with  a  habit  of  industry,  and  great  at- 
tention to  the  management  of  his  farm,  would  save 
us,  we  knew,  from  any  thing  like  riot  or  intemperance 
in  his  family.  But  even  here  I  found  Mr.  Fleetwood 
not  a  whit  more  at  his  ease  than  in  the 'last  house. 
Our  landlord's  ideas  of  politeness  made  him  think  it 
would  be  want  of  respect  to  his  guests  if  he  did  not 
give  them  constant  attendance.  Breakfast,  there- 
fore, was  no  sooner  removed,  than,  as  he  wished  to 
visit  his  farm,  he  proposed  a  walk  :  we  set  out  ac- 
cordingly ;  and  our  whole  morning  was  spent  in  cros- 
sing dirty  fields  ;  leaping  ditches  and  hedges,  and 
hearing  our  landlord  discourse  on  drilling  and  horse 
hoeing  ;  of  broadcast  and  summer-fallow  ;  of  ma»ur- 
ing,  plowing,  draining,  Sec.  Mr.  Fleetwood,  who  had 
scarcely  ever  read  a  theoretical  book  upon  farming, 
and  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  practice,  was  teazed 
to  death  with  this  conversation  ;  and  returned  home, 
covered  with  dirt,  and  worn  out  with  fatigue.  After 
dinner,  the  family  economy  did  not  allow  the  least 
approach  to  a  debauch  ;  and,  as  our  landlord  had  ex- 
hausted his  utmost  stock  of  knowledge  and  conver- 
sation in  remarks  upon  his  farm,  while  we  were  not 
at  all  desirous  of  repeating  the  entertainment  of  the 


THE    MIRRCK.  47 

morning-,  we  passed  a  tasteless,  lifeless,  yawning  af- 
ternoon ;  and,  I  believe,  Mr.  Fleetwood  would  have 
willing-ly  exchanged  the  dullness  of  his  present  com- 
pany for  the  boisterous  mirth  of  the  last  he  had 
been  in. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  a  gentleman  of  a  liberal  edu- 
cation, and  elegant  manners,  who,  in  the  earlier  part 
of  his  life,  had  been  much  in  the  polite  world.  Here 
Mr.  Fleetwood  expected  to  find  pleasure  and  enjoy- 
ment sufficient  to  atone  for  the  disagreeable  occur- 
rences in  his  two  former  visits  ;  but  here,  too,  he  was 
disappointed.  Mr.  Selby,  for  that  was  our  friend's 
name,  had  been  several  years  married  ;  his  family 
increasing,  he  had  retired  to  the  country  ;  and,  re- 
nouncing the  bustle  cf  the  world,  had  given  himself 
up  to  domestic  enjoyments  :  his  time  and  attention 
were  devoted  chiefly  to  the  care  of  his  children.  The 
pleasure  which  himself  felt  in  humouring  all  their 
little  fancies,  made  him  forget  how  troublesome  that 
indulgence  might  be  to  others.  The  first  morning 
we  were  at  his  house,  when  Mr.  Fleetwood  came  into 
the  parlour  to  breakfast,  all  the  places  at  table  were 
occupied  by  the  children  ;  it  was  necessary  that  one 
of  them  should  be  displaced  to  make  room  for  him  ; 
and,  in  the  disturbance  which  V  lis  occasioned,  a  tea 
cup  was  overturned*  and  scalded  the  finger  of  Mr. 
Sdby's  eldest  daughter,  a  child  about  seven  years  old, 
whose  whimpering  and  complaining  attracted  the 
whole  attention  during  breakfast.  That  being  over, 
the  eldest  boy  came  forward  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
and  Mr.  Selby  asked  Mr.  Fleetwood  to  hear  him  read 
his  lesson  :  Mrs.  Selby  joined  in  the  request,  though 
both  looked  as  if  they  were  rather  conferring  a  fa- 
vour on  their  guest.  The  ekkst  had  no  sooner  finish- 
ed, than  the  youngest  boy  presented  himself;  upon 
which  his  father  observed,  that  it  would  be  doing  in- 
justice to  Will  not  to  hear  him,  as  well  as  his  elder 
brother  Jack  j  and  in  this  way  was  my  friend  obliged 


48  THE   MIRROR. 

to  spend  the  morning,  in  performing  the  office  of  a 
schoolmaster  to  the  children  in  succession. 

Mr.  Fleetwood  liked  a  game  at  whist,  and  promised 
himself  a  party  in  the  evening,  free  from  interrup- 
tion. Cards  were  accordingly  proposed  ;  but  Mrs. 
Selby  observed,  that  her  little  daughter,  who  still 
complained  of  her  scalded  finger,  needed  amusement 
as  much  as  any  of  the  company.  In  place  of  cards, 
Miss  Harriet  insisted  on  the  game  of  the  goose. 
Down  to  it  we  sat ;  and  to  a  stranger  it  would  have 
been  not  unamusing  to  see  Mr.  Fleetwood,  in  his  sor- 
rowful countenance,  at  the  royal  and  pleasant  game 
of  the  goose,  with  a  child  of  seven  years  old.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  dwell  longer  on  particulars.  During 
all  the  time  we  were  at  Mr.  Selby's,  the  delighted 
parents  were  indulging  their  fondness,  while  Mr. 
Fleetwood  was  repining  and  fretting  in  secret. 

Having  finished  our  intended  round  of  visits,  we 
turned  our  course  homewards,  and,  at  the  first  inn 
on  our  road,  were  joined  by  one  Mr.  Johnson,  with 
whom  I  was  slightly  acquainted.  Politeness  would 
not  allow  me  to  reject  the  offer  of  his  company, 
especially  as  I  knew  him  to  be  a  good-natured  inof- 
fensive man.  Our  road  lay  through  a  glen,  romantic 
and  picturesque,  which  we  reached  soon  after  sun- 
set, in  a  mild  and  still  evening.  On  each  side  were 
stupendous  mountains  ;  their  height ;  the  rude  and 
projecting  rocks,  of  which  some  of  them  were  com- 
posed ;  the  gloomy  caverns  they  seemed  to  contain  ; 
and  the  appearance  of  devastation,  occasioned  by 
traces  of  cataracts  falling  from  their  tops,  presented 
to  our  view  a  scene  truly  sublime.  Mr.  Fleetwood 
felt  an  unusual  elevation  of  spirit.  Flis  soul  rose 
within  him,  and  was  swelled  with  that  silent  awe,  so 
well  suited  to  his  contemplative  mind.  In  the  words 
of  the  poet,  he  could  have  said, 


Congenial  horrors,  hail  ! 


THE    MIRRQJt.  49 

jt  Welcome  kindred  glooms, 


Be  these  my  theme. 


•'  These  that  exalt  the  soul  to  solemn  thought, 
»*  And  heavenly  musing  !" 

Our  silence  had  now  continued  for  about  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  ;  and  an  unusual  stillness  prevailed  around 
us,  interrupted  only  by  the  tread  of  our  horses,  which, 
returning  at  stated  intervals,  assisted  by  the  echo  of 
the  mountains,  formed  a  hollow  sound,  which  in 
creased  the  solemnity  of  the  scene.  Mr.  Johnson, 
tiring  of  this  silence,  and  not  having  the  least  com- 
prehension of  its  cause,  all  at  once,  and  without 
warning,  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  began  the  song  of 
M  Push  about  the  Joram."  Mr.  Fleetwood's  soul 
was  then  wound  up  to  its  utmost  height.  At  the 
sound  of  Mr.  Johnson's  voice  he  started,  and  viewed 
him  with  a  look  of  horror,  mixed  with  contempt. 
During  the  rest  of  our  journey,  I  could  hardly  pre- 
vail on  my  friend  to  be  civil  to  him  ;  and  though  he 
is,  in  every  respect,  a  worthy  and  a  good-natured 
man,  and  though  Mr.  Fleetwood  and  he  have  often 
met  since,  the  former  has  never  been  able  to  look 
upon  him  without  disgust. 

Mr.  Fleetwood's  entertainment  in  this  short  tour 
has  produced,  in  my  mind,  many  reflections,  in  which 
I  doubt  not  I  shall  be  anticipated  by  my  readers. 

There  are  few  situations  in  life,  from  which  a  man, 
who  has  confined  his  turn  for  enjoyment  within  the 
bounds  pointed  out  by  nature,  will  not  receive  satis- 
faction ;  but,  if  we  once  transgress  those  bounds, 
and  seeking  after  too  much  refinement,  indulge  a 
false  and  mistaken  delicacy,  there  is  hardly  a  situa- 
tion in  which  we  will  not  be  exposed  to  disappoint- 
ment and  disgust. 

Had  it  not  been  fer  this  false,  this  dangerous  deli- 
cacy, Mr.  Fleetwood,  instead  of  uneasiness,  would 


56  THE    MIRROR. 

have   received  pleasure  from  every  visit   we  made, 
from  every  incident  we  met  with. 

At  the  first  house  to  which  we  went,  it  was  not 
necessary  that  he  should  have  preferred  the  hottle  to 
the  enjoyment  of  a  fine  evening  in  the  country  ;  but 
that  not  being  the  sentiments  of  the  company,  had 
he,  without  repining,  given  up  his  taste  to  theirs, 
instead  of  feeling  disgust  at  what  appeared  to  him 
coarse  in  their  enjoyments,  he  would  have  felt  plea- 
sure at  the  mirth  and  good  humour  which  prevailed 
around  him  ;  and  the  very  reflection,  that  different 
employments  gave  amusement  to  different  men, 
would  have  afforded  a  lirely  and  philanthrope cal  satis- 
faction. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  expected,  that  the  barrenness 
and  dryness  of  the  conversation  at  our  second  visit, 
could  fill  up,  or  entirely  satisfy  the  delicate  and  im- 
proved mind  of  Mr.  Fleetwood  ;  but  had  he  not  laid 
it  down  almost  as  a  rule,  not  to  be  pleased  with  any 
thing,  except  what  suited  his  own  idea  of  enjoyment,, 
he  might,  and  ought  to  have  received  pleasure  from 
the  sight  of  a  worthy  family,  spending  their  time 
innocently,  happily,  and  usefully  ;  usefully,  both  to 
themselves  and  to  their  country. 

It  was  owing  to  the  same  false  sensibility,  that  he 
was  so  muclv chagrined  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Selby. 
The  fond  indulgence  of  the  parents  did  perhaps, 
carry  their  attention  to  their  children  beyond  the  rules 
of  propriety  ;  but,  had  it  not  been  for  this  finicalness 
of  mind  in  Mr.  Fleetwood,  had  he  given  the  natural 
benevolence  of  his  heart  its  play,  he  would  have  re- 
ceived a  pleasure  from  witnessing  the  happiness  of 
two  virtuous  parents  in  their  rising  offspring,  that 
would  have  much  overbalanced  any  uneasiness  arising 
from  the  errors  in  their  conduct. 

Neither,  but  for  this  excessive  refinement,  would 
Mr.  Fleetwood  have  been  hurt  by  the  behaviour  of 
Mr.  Johnson.     Though  he  might  not  have  consider- 


TKE   MIRROR.  5  I 

cd  him  as  a  man  of  taste,  he  would,  nevertheless, 
have  regarded  him  as  a  good  and  inoffensive  man  ; 
and  he  would  have  received  pleasure  from  the  re- 
flection, that  neither  their  goodness  nor  happiness 
are  confined  to  those  minds  which  are  fitted  for  feel- 
ing and  enjoying  all  the  pleasures  of  nature  or  of 
art. 
A 


No.  XL     TUESDAY,  MARCH  2. 

SINCE  the  commencement  of  the  late  levies,  I 
understand  that  not  only  drill  Serjeants  have  had  daily 
access  to  the  lobbies  and  parlours  of  many  decent  and 
peaceable  houses  in  this  metropolis,  but  that  profes- 
sors of  the  noble  science  of  defence  have  been  so 
constantly  occupied  in  attending  grown  gentlemen, 
and  ungrown  officers,  that  their  former  scholars  have 
found  great  difficulty  in  procuring  masters  to  push 
with  them,  and  have  frequently  been  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  the  less-edifying  opposition  of  one  ano- 
ther. 

The  purpose  of  the  Serjeant's  instructions,  every  lov- 
er of  his  country  must  approve.  The  last-mentioned 
art,  that  of  fencing,  I  formerly  took  great  delight  in 
myself,  and  still  account  one  of  the  healthiest  of  all 
house-exercises,  insomuch  that,  when  I  am  in  the 
country,  where  I  make  it  a  rule  to  spend  a  certain 
part  of  every  day  in  exercise  of  some  kind,  I  gene- 
rally take  up  my  foil  in  rainy  mornings,  and  push 
with  great  success  against  the  figure  of  Herod,  in  a 
piece  of  old  arras  that  was  taken  down  from  my 
grandmother's  room,  and  is  now  pasted  up  on  the 
wall  of  the  laundry. 

▼  OL.  I.  F 


52  THE    MIRROR. 

When  those  two  sciences,  however,  go  upon  ac- 
tual service,  they  are  to  be  considered  in  different 
lights.  That  of  the  Serjeant,  as  it  teaches  a  man  to 
stand  well  on  his  legs,  to  carry  his  body  firm,  and  to 
move  it  alertly,  is  much  the  same  as  the  fencing 
master's  ;  but  in  their  last  stage  they  depart  some- 
what from  each  other  :  the  Serjeant  proposes  to  qua- 
lify a  man  for  encountering  his  enemy  in  battle,  the 
other  to  fit  him  for  meeting  his  companion,  or  friend 
it  may  be,  in  a  duel. 

My  readers  will,  I  hope,  give  me  credit  for  the 
Mirror  being  always  a  very  polite  paper  ;  1  am  not, 
therefore,  at  all  disposed  to  bestow  on  a  practice  so 
gentleman-like  as  duelling,  those  severe  reprehen- 
sions, equally  trite  and  unjust,  in  which  some  of  my 
predecessors  have  indulged  themselves.  During  my 
residence  abroad,  I  was  made  perfectly  acquainted 
with  the  arguments  drawn  in  its  favour,  from  the  in- 
fluence it  has  on  the  manners  of  the  gentleman,  and 
the  honour  of  the  soldier.  It  is  my  intention  only  to 
point  out  those  bounds  within  which  the  most  punc- 
tilious valour  may  be  contented  to  restrain  itself; 
and  in  this  I  shall  be  the  more  guarded,  as  I  mean 
the  present  paper  principally  for  the  use  of  the  new- 
raised  regiments  above  alluded  to,  whose  honour  I 
dearly  prize,  and  would  preserve  as  scrupulously  in- 
violate as  possible.  I  hold  such  an  essay  peculiarly 
proper  at  this  juncture,  when  some  of  them  are 
about  to  embark  on  long  voyages,  in  which  even 
good-natured  people,  being  tacked  together  like  man 
and  wife,  are  somewhat  apt  to  grow  peevish  and 
quarrelsome. 

In  the  first  place,  I  will  make  one  general  obser- 
vation, that,  at  this  busy  time,  when  our  country  has 
need  of  men,  lives  are  of  more  value  to  the  com- 
munity than  at  other  periods.  In  time  of  peace,  so 
many  regiments  are  reduced,  and  the  duties  of  an 
officer  so  easily  performed,  that  if  one  fall,  and  ano- 


THE     MIRROR.  53 

ther  be  hanged  for  killing  him,  there  will  speedily  be 
found  two  proper  young  men  ready  to  mount  guard, 
and  shew  a  good  leg  on  the  parade,  in  their  room. 
But,  at  present,  from  the  great  increase  ot  the  esta- 
blishment, there  is  rather  a  scarcity,  in  proportion 
to  the  demand  of  men  of  military  talents,  and  military 
figure,  especially  when  we  consider  that  the  war  is 
now  to  be  carried  on  against  so  genteel  a  people  as 
the  French,  to  whom  it  will  be  necessary  to  shew 
officers  of  the  most  soldier-like  appearance  and  ad- 
dress. 

This  patriotic  consideration  will  tend  to  relax  the 
etiquette  formerly  established,  for  every  officer  to 
fight  a  duel  within  a  few  weeks  of  the  date  of  his 
commission,  and  that,  too,  without  the  purpose  of 
resenting  any  affront,  or  vindicating  his  honour  from 
any  aspersion,  but  merely  to  shew  that  he  could 
fight.  Now,  this  practice,  being  unnecessary  at  pre- 
sent, as  preferment  goes  on  briskly  enough  by  the 
fall  of  officers  in  the  course  of  their  duty,  may  very 
properly,  and  without  disparagement  to  the  valour 
of  the  British  army,  be  dispensed  with  ;  so,  it  is  to 
be  agreed  and  understood,  that  every  officer  in  the 
new-raised  regiments,  whose  commission  bears  date 
on  or  posterior  to  the  1st  of  January,  1778,  is  ifiso 
facto,  to  be  held  and  deemed  of  unquestionable  cou- 
rage and  immaculate  honour. 

As  to  the  measure  of  affront  which  may  justify  a 
challenge,  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  officers 
of  the  above  mentioned  corps  have  been  obliged,  in 
levying  their  respectire  quotas,  to  engage  in  scenes 
of  a  very  particular  kind  ;  at  markets,  fairs,  country- 
weddings,  and  city-brawls,  amongst  a  set  of  men 
and  women  not  remarkable  for  delicacy  of  language 
or  politeness  of  behaviour.  We  are  not,  therefore, 
to  wonder  if  the  smooth  enamel  of  the  gentleman  has 
received  some  little  injury  from  the  collision  of  such 
coarse  materials  ;  and  a  certain  time   may  fairlv  be 


54,  THE    MIRROR. 

allowed  for  unlearning  the  blunt  manners  and  rough 
phraseology  which  an  officer  in  such  situations  was 
forced  to  assume.  Therefore  the  identical  words 
which,  a  campaign  or  two  hence,  are  to  be  held  ex- 
piable  only  by  blood,  may,  at  present,  be  done  away 
by  an  explanation  ;  and  those  which  an  officer  must 
then  explain  and  account  for,  at  peril  of  a  challenge, 
are  now  to  be  considered  as  mere  colloquial  expletives, 
acquired  by  associating  with  such  company  as  fre- 
quent the  places  above  described. 

As,  notwithstanding  all  these  allowances,  some 
duels  may  be  expected  to  take  place,  it  is  proper  to 
mention  certain  regulations  for  the  conduct  of  the 
parties,  in  the  construction  of  which  I  have  paid  in- 
iinitely  more  regard  to  their  honour  than  to  their 
safety. 

In  fighting  with  the  sword,  a  blow,  or  the  lie  di- 
rect, can  scarcely  be  expiated  but  by  a  thrust  through 
the  body  ;  but  any  lesser  affront  may  be  wiped  off  by 
a  wound  in  the  sword-arm ;  or,  if  the  injury  be 
very  slight,  any  wound  will  be  sufficient.  In  all 
this,  it  is  to  be  noted,^  that  the  receiving  of  such 
wound  by  either  party  constitutes  a  reparation  for  the 
affront  ;  as  it  is  a  rule  of  justice  peculiar  to  the  code 
of  duelling,  that  the  blood  of  the  injured  atones  for 
the  offence  he  has  received,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
injurer  for  the  offence  he  lias  given. 

In  affairs  decided  with  pistols,  the  distance  is,  in 
like  manner,  to  be  regulated  by  the  nature  of  the 
injury.  For  those  of  an  atrocious  sort,  a  distance 
of  only  twenty  feet,  and  pistols  of  nine,  nine  and  a 
half,  or  ten  inch  barrels,  are  requisite  ;  for  slighter 
ones,  the  distance  may  be  doubled,  and  a  six,  or 
even  five  inch  barrel  will"serve.  Regard,  moreover, 
is  to  be  had  to  the  size  of  the  persons  engaged  ;  for 
every  stone  above  eleven,  the  party  of  such  weight 
may,  with  perfect  honor,  retire  three  feet. 

I  read,    some    time  ago,  certain  addresses  to  the 


THE   MIRROR.  55 

Jockey  Club,  by   two   gentlemen  who  had  been  en- 
gaged in  an  affair  of  honor,  from  which  it  appeared 
that  one  of  them  had  systematized  the  art  of   duel- 
ling to  a  wonderful  degree.     Among  other  things,  he 
had  brought  his   aim  with  a  pistol  to  so  much  cer- 
tainty, and  made  such  improvements  on  the  weapon, 
that  he   could   lay  a  hundred  guineas  to  ten  on    hit- 
ting, at  a  considerable   distance,  any  part  of  his  ad- 
versary's   body.      These    arts,    however,    I    by    no 
means  approve  :   they  resemble,  methinks,  a  loaded 
die,  or  a  packed  deal  ;  and   I  am    inclined  to  be  of 
opinion,  that   a   gentleman   is  no  more  obliged   to 
fight  against  the  first,  than  to  play  against  the  latter. 
They  may,  in  the  mildest  construction,  be  compar- 
ed to  the   sure  play  of  a   man  who   can  take  every 
ball  at  billiards  ;  and  therefore,  if  it  shall  be  judged 
that  an  ordinary  marksman  must  fight  with  the  per- 
son  possessed   of  them,  he   is,  at  least,  intitled  to 
odds,  and  must  be  allowed  three  shots  to  one  of  his 
antagonist. 

I  have  thus,  with  some  labour,  and  I  hope  strict 
honor,  settled  certain  articles  in  the  matter  of  duel- 
ling, for  such  of  my  readers  as  may  have  occasion 
for  them.  It  is  but  candid,  however,  to  own,  that 
there  have  been,  now  and  then,  brilliant  things  done 
quite  without  the  line   of  my  directions,  to  wit,  by 

not  fighting  at  all.     The  Abbe .  with  whom  I 

was  disputing  at  Paris  on  this  subject,  concluded  his 
arguments  against  duelling  with  a  story,  which, 
though  I  did  not  think  it  much  to  the  purpose,  was 
a  tolerable  story  notwithstanding.  I  shall  give  it  in 
the  very  words  of  the  Abbe. 

"  A  countryman  of  yours,  a  Captain  Douglas, 
"  was  playing  at  trictrac,  with  a  very  intimate 
"  friend,  here  in  this  very  coffee-house,  amidst  a 
"  a  circle  of  French  officers  who  were  looking  on. 
"  Some  dispute  arising  about  a  cast  of  the  dice, 
"  Douglas  said,  in  a  gay  thoughtless  manner,  "oh! 
r  2 


56  THE   MIRROR. 

"  what  a  story  1"  A  murmur  arose  among  the  by- 
"  standers :  and  his  antagonist  feeling  the  affront, 
"  as  if  the  lie  had  been  given  him,  in  the  violence 
"  of  his  passion,  snatched  up  the  tables,  and  hit 
"  Douglas  a  blow  on  the  head.  The  instant  he  had 
"  done  it,  the  idea  of  his  imprudence,  and  its  pro- 
u  bable  consequences  to  himself  and  his  friend, 
"  rushed  upon  his  mind :  he  sat,  stupified  with 
u  shame  and  remorse,  his  eyes  rivetted  on  the 
"  ground,  regardless  of  what  the  other's  resent- 
"  ment  might  prompt  him  to  act.  Douglas,  after  a 
"  short  pause,  turned  round  to  the  spectators : 
"  You  think,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  now  ready  to 
"  cut  the  throat  of  that  unfortunate  young  man  ; 
"  but  I  know  that,  at  this  moment,  he  feels  anguish 
"  a  thousand  times   more  keen  than  any  my  sword 

*  could  inflict — I  will  embrace  him — thus — and  try 
"  to  reconcile  him   to   himself ; — but  I  will   cut  the 

*  throat  of  that  man  among  you  who  shall  dare  to 
"  breathe  a  syllable  against  my  honour."  "  Bravo  ! 
"  Bravo  !"  cried  an  old  Chevalier  de  St.  Louis,  who 
"  stood  immediately  behind  him  : — The  sentiment 

*  of  France  overcame  its  habit,  and  bravo  !  bravo  '. 
"  echoed  from  every  corner  of  the  room.  Who 
u  would  not  have  cried  bravo  !  Would  not  you,  Sir  ? 
u  Doubtless."  "  On  other  occasions,  then,  be  go- 
w  verned  by  the  same  principle."  "  Why  to  be 
"  sure,  it  were  often  better  not  to  fight — if  one  had 

*  but  the  courage  not  to  fight." 

I 


THE    MIRROR.  57 

No.  XII.     SATURDAY,  MARCH  6. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror, 

SIR, 

I  AM  am  a  plain  country-gentleman,  with  a  small 
fortune,  and  a  large  family.  My  boys,  all  except 
the  youngest,  I  have  contrived  to  set  out  into  the 
world  in  tolerably  promising  situations.  My  two 
eldest  girls  are  married  ;  one  to  a  clergyman  with  a 
very  comfortable  living,  and  a  respectable  charac- 
ter ;  ihe  other  to  a  neighbour  of  my  own,  who 
farms  most  of  his  own  estate,  and  is  supposed  to 
know  country-business  as  well  as  any  man  in  this 
part  of  the  kingdom.  I  have  four  other  girls  at 
home,  whom  I  wish  to  make  fit  wives  for  men  of 
equal  rank  with  their  brothers-in-law. 

About  three  months  ago,  a  great  lady  in  our 
neighbourhood,  (at  least  as  neighbourhood  is  reckon- 
ed in  our  quarter,)  happened  to  meet  the  two  eldest 
of  my  unmarried  daughters  at  the  house  of  a  gen- 
tleman, a  distant  relation  of  mine,  and,  as  well  as 
myself,  a  freeholder  in  our  county.  The  girls  are 
tolerably  handsome,  and  I  have  endeavoured  to  make 
them  understand  the  common  rules  of  good-breed- 
ing.    My  Lady ran  out  to  my  kinsman,  who 

happens  to  have  no  children  of  his  own,  in  praise  of 
their  beauty  and  politeness,  and,  at  parting,  gave 
them  a  most  pressing  invitation  to  come  and  spend 
a  week  with  her  during  the  approaching  Christmas 
holidays.  On  my  daughters'  return  from  their  kins- 
man's, I  was  not  altogether  pleased  at  hearing  of 
this  invitation ;  nor  was  I  more  satisfied  with  the 
very  frequent  quotations  of  my  Lady  ■     's  say- 

ings, and  sentiments,  and  the  descriptions  of  the 
beauty  of  her  complexion,  the  elegance  of  her  dress, 
and  the  grandeur  of  her  equipage.     I  opposed,  there- 


58  THE   MIRROR. 

fore,  their  design  of  paying  this  Christmas  visit  pret- 
ty warmly.  Upon  this  the  honour  done  them  by  the 
invitation,  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  great  Lady  ;  and  the  benefit  that 
might  accrue  to  my  family  from  the  influence  of  her 
Lord,  were  immediately  rung  in  my  ears,  not  only 
by  my  daughters,  but  also  by  their  mother,  whom 
they  had  already  gained  over  to  their  side  ;  and,  I 
must  own  to  you,  Mr.  Mirror,  though  I  would  not 
have  you  think  me  hen-pecked,  that  my  wife,  some- 
how or  other,  contrives  to  carry  most  points  in  our 
family  ;  so   my   opposition    was   over-ruled,  and   to 

— the   girls   went ;  but  not  before  they  had 

made  a  journey  to  the  metropolis  of  our  county,  and 
brought  back  a  portmanteau  full  of  necessaries  to 
qualify  them  for  appearing  decently,  as  my  wife  said, 
in  the  company  they  should  meet  there. 

In  about  a  month,  for  their  visit  was  drawn  out 
to  that  length,  my  daughters  returned.  But  had  you 
seen,  Mr.  Mirror,  what  an  alteration  that  month  had 
made  on  them !  Instead  of  the  rosy  complexions, 
and  sparkling  eyes,  they  had  carried  with  them,  they 
brought  back  cheeks  as  white  as  a  curd,  and  eyes  as 
dead  as  the  beads  in  the  face  of  a  baby. 

I  could  not  help  expressing  my  surprize  at  the 
sight ;  but  the  .younger  of  the  two  ladies  immediate- 
ly cut  me  short,  by  telling  me,  that  their  complexion 
was  the  only  one  worn  at . 

And  no  wonder,  Sir,  it  should,  from  the  descrip- 
tion which  my  daughter  sometimes  gives  us  of  the 
life  people  lead  there.  Instead  of  rising  at  seven, 
breakfasting  at  nine,  dining  at  three,  supping  at 
eight,  and  getting  to  bed  by  ten,  as  it  was  their 
custom  at  home,  my  girls  lay  till  twelve,  breakfasted 
at  one,  dined  at  six,  supped  at  eleven,  and  were 
never  to  bed  till  three  in  the  morning.  Their  shapes 
had  undergone  as  much  alteration  as  their  faces. — 
From  their  bosoms,  (necks  they  called  them,)  which 


THE    MIRROR.  59 

Mere  squeezed  up  to  their  throats,  their  waists  ta- 
pered down  to  a  very  extraordinary  smallness  :  they 
resemble  the  upper  half  of  an  hour  glass.  At  this, 
also,  I  marvelled  ;  but  it    was  the  only  shape  worn 

at  .     Next   day,  after    dinner,  after  a   long 

morning  preparation,  they  appeared  with  heads  of 
such  a  size,  that  my  little  parlour  was  not  of  height 
enough  to  let  them  stand  upright  in  it.  This  was 
the  most  striking  metamorphosis  of  all.  Their  mo- 
ther slared  ;  I  ejaculated  ;  my  other  children  burst 
out  a  laughing  ;  the  answer  was  the  same  as  before  ; 

it  was  the  only  head  worn  at . 

Nor  is  their  behaviour  less  changed  than  their 
garb.  Instead  of  joining  in  the  good  humoured 
cheerfulness  we  used  to  have  among  us  before,  my 
two  fine  young  ladies  check  every  approach  to  mirth, 
by  calling  it  vulgar.  One  of  them  chid  their  bro- 
ther the  other  day  for  laughing,  and  told  him  it 
was  monstrously  ill  bred.  In  the  evenings,  when 
we  were  wont,  if  we  had  nothing  else  to  do,  to  fall 
to  Blind-man's  buff,  or  Cross-purposes,  or  some- 
times to  play  at  Loo  for  cherry-stones,  these  two  get 
a  pack  of  cards  to  themselves,  and  sit  down  to  play 
for  any  little  money  their  visit  has  left  them,  at  a 
game  none  of  us  know  any  thing  about.  It  seems, 
indeed,  the  dullest  of  all  amusements,  as  it  consists 
in  merely  turning  up  the  faces  of  the  cards,  and  .re- 
peating their  names  from  an  ace  upwards,  as  if  the 
players  were  learning  to  speak,  and  had  got  only 
thirteen  words  in  their  vocabulary.  But  of  this, 
and  every  other  custom  at ,  no  body  is  allow- 
ed to  judge  but  themselves.  They  have  got  a  parcel 
of  phrases,  which  they  utter  on  all  occasions  as  de- 
cisive, French,  I  believe,  though  I  can  scarce  find 
any  of  them  in  the  dictionary,  and  am  unable  to  put 
them  upon  paper  ;  but  all  of  them  mean  something 
extremely  fashionable,  and  are  constantly  supported 


60  THE   MIRROR. 

by  the  authority   of  my  Lady,  or  the  Countess,  his 
Lordship,  or  Sir  John. 

As  they  have  learned  many  foreign,  so  have  they 
unlearned  some  of  the  most  common  and  best  un 
derstood  home  phrases.  When  one  of  my  neighbours 
was  lamenting  the  extravagance  and  dissipation  of  a 
young  kinsman  who  had  spent  his  fortune,  and  lost 
his  health  in  London  and  at  Newmarket,  they  called 
it  life,  and  said  it  shewed  spirit  in  the  young  man. 
After  the  same  rule,  they  lately  declared,  that  a 
gentleman  could  not  live  on  less  than  10001.  a-year, 
and  called  the  account  which  their  mantua-maker 
and  milliner  sent  me  for  the  fineries  purchased  for 

their  visit  at ,  a  trifle,  though  it  amounted  to 

591.  lis.  4d.   exactly  a  fourth  part  of  the  clear  in- 
come of  my  estate. 

All  this,  Mr,  Mirror,  I  look  upon  as  a  sort  of 
pestilential  disorder,  with  which  my  poor  daughters 
have  been  infected  in  the  course  of  this  unfortunate 
visit.  This  consideration  has  induced  me  to  treat 
them  hitherto  with  lenity  and  indulgence,  and  try  to 
effect  their  cure  by  mild  methods,  which  indeed  suit 
my  temper  (naturally  of  a  pliant  kind,  as  every  body, 
except  my  wife,  says,)  better  than  harsh  ones.  Yet, 
I  confess,  I  could  not  help  being  in  a  passion  t'other 
day,  when  the  disorder  shewed  symptoms  of  a  more 
serious  kind.  Would  you  believe  it,  Sir,  my  daugh- 
ter Elizabeth  (since  her  visit,  she  is  offended  if  we 
call  her  Betty)  said  it  was  fanatical  to  find  fault  with 
card-playing  on  Sunday  ;  and  her  sister  Sophia 
gravely  asked  my  son-in-law,  the  clergyman,  if  he 
had  not  some  doubts  of  the  soul's  immortality  ? 

As  certain  great  cities,  I  have  heard,  are  never 
free  from  the  plague,  and  at  last  come  to  look  upon 
it  as  nothing  terrible  or  extraordinary  ;  so,  I  sup- 
pose, in  London,  or  even  your  town,  Sir,  this  dis- 
ease always  prevails,  and  is  but  little  dreaded.  But, 
in  the  country,  it  will   be  productive  of  melancholy 


THE   MIR110R.  61 

effects  indeed  ;  if  suffered  to   spread    there,  it  will 
not  only  embitter  our  lives,  and  spoil  our  domestic 
happiness,  as    at   present  it   does   mine,  but,  in  its 
most  violent  stages,  will  bring  our  estates  to  market, 
our  daughters  to  ruin,  and  our  sons  to  the  gallows. 
Be    so  humane,  therefore,  Mr.  Mirrory  as  to   sug- 
gest   some  expedient  for   keeping  it  confined  within 
those  limits  in  which  it  rages  at  present.     If  no  pub- 
lic  regulation  can    be    contrived    for    that    purpose 
(though  I  cannot   help   thinking  this  disease   of  the 
great  people  merits  the  attention  of  government,  as 
much   as   the   distemper  among  the  horned    cattle,) 
try,  at  least,  the   effects    of  private    admonition,  to 
prevent  the   sound  from   approaching  the  infected  ; 
let  all  little  men  like  myself,  and   every  member  of 
their   families,  be   cautious    of    holding  intercourse 
with  the  persons  or  families  of  dukes,  earls,  lords, 
nabobs,  or   contractors,  till  they   have   good  reason 
to  believe  that  s#ch  persons  and  their  households  are 
in   a   sane   and   healthy  state,  and  in   no  danger  of 
communicating  this    dreadful    disorder.     And,  if  it 
has  left  such  great   and   noble  persons    any  feelings 
of  compassion,  pray  put  them  in  mind  of  that  well- 
known  fable  of  the  boys  and  the  frogs,  which  they 
must  have  learned  at  school.     Tell   them,  Sir,  that 
though  the    making  fools   of  their  poor   neighbours 
may  serve  them  for  a  Christmas  gambol,  it  is  matter 
of  serious  wretchedness  to  those  poor  neighbours  in 
the  after  part  of  their  lives  :  "  It  is  sport  to  them, 
"  but  death  to  us." 

I  am,  Sec. 

John  Homesp-u^m. 
Z 


62  THE    MIRROR. 


No.  XIII.  TUESDAY,  MARCH  9. 

THE  antiquity  of  the  poems  ascribed  to  Ossian, 
the  son  of  Fingol,  has  been  the  subject  of  much  dis- 
pute. The  refined  magnanimity  and  generosity  of 
the  heroes,  and  the  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  sen- 
timent, with  regard  to  women,  so  conspicuous  in 
those  poems,  are  circumstances  very  difficult  to  re- 
concile with  the  rude  and  uncultivated  age  in  which 
the  poet  is  supposed  to  have  lived.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  intrinsic  characters  of  antiquity  which  the 
poems  bear  ;  that  simple  state  of  society  the  poet 
paints  ;  the  narrow  circle  of  objects  and  transactions 
he  describes;  his  concise,  abrupt,  and  figurative  style ; 
the  absence  of  all  abstract  ideas,  and  of  all  modern 
allusions,  render  it  difficult  to  assign  any  other  xra 
for  their  production  than  the  age  of  Fingal.  In  short, 
there  are  difficulties  on  both  sides  ;#nd,  if  that  re- 
markable refinement  of  manners  seem  inconsistent 
with  cur  notions  of  an  unimproved  age,  the  marks  of 
antiquity  with  which  the  poems  are  stamped  make 
it  very  hard  to  suppose  them  a  modern  composition. 
It  is  not,  however,  my  intention  to  examine  the  me- 
rits of  this  controversy,  much  less  to  hazard  any 
judgment  of  my  own.  All  I  propose  is,  to  suggest 
©ne  consideration  on  the  subject,  which,  as  far  as  I 
can  recollect,  has  hitherto  escaped  the  parti zans  of 
either  side. 

The  elegant  author  of  the  Critical  Dissertation  on 
the  Poems  of  Ossian,  has  very  properly  obviated  the 
objections  made  to  the  uniformity  of  Ossian's  ima- 
gery, and  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  the  same 
comparisons.  He  has  shown,  that  this  objection  pro- 
ceeds from  a  careless  and  inattentive  perusal  of  the 
poems;  for,  although  the  range  of  the  poet's  objects 
was  not  wide,  and  consequently  the  same  object  does 
often  return,  yet  its  appearance  is  changed ;  the  image 


THE    MIRROK.  63 

is  new ;  it  is  presented  to  the  fa.ncy  in  another  atti* 
tude,  and  clothed  with  different  circumstances  to  make 
it  suit  the  illustration  for  which  it  is  employed.  "  In 
this,"  continues  he,  "  lies  Ossian's  great  art ;"  and 
he  illustrates  his  remark  by  taking  the  instances  of 
the  moon  and  of  mist,  two  of  the  principal  subjects 
of  the  bard's  images  and  allusions. 

I  agree  with  this  critic  in  his  observations,  though 
I  think  he  has  rather  erred  in  ascribing  to  art  in  Os- 
sian,  that  wonderful  diversification  of  the  narrow  cir- 
cle of  objects  with  which  he  was  acquainted.  It  was 
not  by  any  efforts  of  art  or  contrivance  that  Ossian 
presented  the  rude  objects  of  nature  under  so  many 
different  aspects.  He  wrote  from  a  full  heart,  from 
a  rich  and  glowing  imagination.  He  did  not  seek  for, 
and  invent  images  ;  he  copied  nature,  and  painted 
objects  as  they  struck  and  kindled  his  fancy.  He  had 
nothing  within  the  range  of  his  view,  but  the  great 
features  of  simple  nature.  The  sun,  the  moon,  the 
stars,  the  desert  heath,  the  winding  stream,  the 
green  hill,  with  all  its  roes,  and  the  rock  with  its 
robe  of  mist,  were  the  objects  amidst  which  Ossian 
lived.  Contemplating  these,  under  every  variety  of 
appearance  they  could  assume,  bo  wonder  that  his 
warm  and  empassioned  genius  found  in  them  a  field 
fruitful  of  the  most  lofty  and  sublime  imagery. 

Thus  the  very  circumstance  of  his  having  such  a 
circumscribed  range  of  inanimate  objects  to  attract 
the  attention  and  exercise  his  imagination,  was  the 
natural  and  necessary  cause  of  Ossian's  being  able 
to  view  and  to  describe  them,  under  such  a  variety 
of  great  and  beautiful  appearances.  And,  may  we 
not  proceed  farther,  and  affirm,  that  so  rich  a  diver- 
sification of  the  few  appearances  of  simple  nature, 
could  hardly  have  occurred  to  the  imagination  of  a 
poet,  living  in  any  other  than  the  rude  and  early  age 
in  which  the  son  of  Fingal  appeared. 

In  refined  and  polished  society,  where  the  works  of 

Vol.  i.  g 


64  THE    MIRROR. 

art  abound,  the  endless  variety  of  objects  that  present 
themselves,  distract  and  dissipate  the  attention.  The 
mind  is  perpetually  hurried  from  one  object  to  ano- 
ther, and  no  time  is  left  to  dwell  upon  the  sublime 
and  simple  appearances  of  nature.  A  poet,  in  such 
an  age,  has  a  wide  and  diversified  circle  of  objects  on 
which  to  exercise  his  imagination.  He  has  a  large 
and  diffused  stock  of  materials  from  which  to  draw 
images  to  embellish  his  work  ;  and  he  does  not  al- 
ways resort  for  his  imagery  to  the  diversified  appear- 
ance of  the  objects  of  rude  nature;  he  does  not  avoid 
those  because  his  taste  rejects  them  ;  but  he  uses 
them  seldom,  because  they  seldom  recur  to  his  ima- 
gination. 

To  seize  these  images  belongs  only  to  the  poet  of 
an  early  and  simple  age.  where  the  undivided  atten- 
tion has  leisure  to  brood  over  the  few,  but  sublime 
objects  which  surround  him.  The  sea  and  the  heath, 
the  rock  and  the  torrent,  the  clouds  and  meteors,  the 
thunder  and  lightning,  the  sun  and  moon,  and  stars, 
are,  as  it  were,  the  companions  with  which  his  ima- 
gination holds  converse.  He  personifies  and  addresses 
them  :  every  aspect  they  can  assume  is  impressed 
upon  his  mind  :  he  contemplates  and  traces  them 
through  all  the  endless  varieties  of  seasons ;  and  they 
are  the  perpetual  subjects  of  his  images  and  allusions. 
He  has,  indeed,  only  a  few  objects  around  him  :  but 
for  that  very  reason,  he  forms  a  more  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  their  every  feature,  and  shade,  and 
attitude. 

From  this  circumstance,  it  would  seem,  that  the 
poetical  productions  of  widely-distant  periods  of  so- 
ciety, must  ever  bear  strong  marks  of  the  age  which 
gave  them  birth  ;  and  that  it  is  not  possible  for  a 
poetical  genius  of  the  one  ape  to  counterfeit  and  imi- 
tate the  productions  of  the  other.  To  the  poet  of  a 
simple  age,  the  varied  objects  which  present  them- 
selves in  cultivated  society   are   unknown.     To  the 


THE    MIRROR.  65 

poet  of  a  refined  age,  the  idea  of  imitating*  the  pro- 
ductions of  rude  times  might,  perhaps,  occur  ;  but 
the  execution  would  certainly  be  difficult,  perhaps 
impracticable.  To  catch  some  few  transient  aspects 
of  any  of  the  great  appearances  of  nature,  may  be 
within  the  reach  of  the  genius  of  any  age  ;  but  to 
perceive,  and  feel,  and  paint,  all  the  shades  of  a 
few  simple  objects,  and  to  make  them  correspond 
with  a  great  diversity  of  subjects,  the  poet  must  dwell 
amidst  them,  and  have  them  ever  present  to  his 
mind. 

The  excellent  critic  whom  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, has  selected  the  instances  of  the  moon  and 
the  mist,  to  shew  how  much  Ossian  has  diversified 
the  appearances  of  the  few  objects  with  which  he  was 
encircled.  I  shall  now  conclude  this  paper  with  se- 
lecting a  third,  that  of  the  sun,  which,  I  think,  the 
bard  has  presented  in  such  a  variety  of  aspects,  as 
could  have  occurred  to  the  imagination  in  no  other 
than  the  early  and  unimproved  age  in  which  Casian 
is  supposed  to  have  lived. 

The  vanquished  Frothal,  struck  with  the  generous 
magnanimity  of  Fingal,  addresses  him  :  "  Terrible 
"  art  thou,  O  king  of  Morven,  m  battles  of  the 
"  spears  ;  but,  in  peace,  thou  art  like  the  sun,  when 
«  lie  looks  through  a  silent  shower :  the  flowers  lift 
"  their  fair  heads  before  him,  and  the  gales  shake 
"  their  rustling  wings."  Of  the  generous  open 
Cathmor,  exposed  to  the  dark  and  gloomy  Cairbar, 
it  is  said  :  "  His  face  was  like  the  plain  of  the  sun, 
"  when  it  is  bright :  No  darkness  travelled  over  his 
"  brow."  Of  Nathos  :  "  The  soul  of  Nathos  was 
"  generous  and  mild,  like  the  hour  of  the  setting 
"  sun."  Of  young  Connal,  coming  to  seek  the  ho- 
nour   of   the   spear:    u  The   youth    was   lovely,  as 

"  the   first  beam   of   the    sun". «  O  !    Fithil's 

"  son,"  says  Cuchullin,  •*  with  feet  of  wind,  fly  over 
"  the  heath  of  Lena.     Tell  to  Fingal,  that  Erin  is 


66  t         THE     MIRROR. 

44  enthralled,  and  bid  the  king  of  Morden  hasten. 
"  Oh !  let  him  come  like  the  sun  in  a  storm,  when 
44  he  shines  on  the  hills  of  grass." 

Nathos,  anxious  for  the  fate  of  Darthula  :  "  The 
44  soul  of  Nathos  was  sad,  like  the  sun  in  the  day 

"  of  mist,  when  his  face  is  watery  and  dim." 

•  Oscar,  surrounded  with  foes,  foreseeing  the  fall  of 
his  race,  and  yet  at  times  gathering  hope  :  "  At 
44  times  he  was  thoughtful  and  dark,  like  the  sun 
«  when  he  carries  a  cloud  on  his  face  ;  but  he  looks 

44  afterward  on  the  hills  of  Cona." Before  Bos- 

mina  sent  to  offer  them  the  peace  of  heroes  :  44  The 
*4  host  of  Erragon  brightened  in  her  presence,  as  a 
4*  rock  before  the  sudden  beams  of  the  sun,  when 
44  they   issue  from  a  broken  cloud,  divided  by  the 

44  roaring   wind." The   remembrance   of  battles 

past,  and  the  return  of  peace,  is  compared  to  the 
sun  returning  after  a  storm:  Hear  the  battle  of  Lora ; 
44  the  sound  of  its  steel  is  long  since  past ;  so  thun- 
•4  der  on  the  darkened  hill  roars,  and  is  no  more  ; 
44  the  sun  returns,  with  his  silent  beams  :  the  glit- 
44  tering  rocks,  and  green  heads  of  the  mountains, 
«  smile." 

Fingal  in  his  strength  darkening  in  the  presence 
of  war:  44  His  arm  stretches  to  the  foe  like  the  beam 
44  of  the  sickly  sun,  when  his  side  is  crusted  with 
<4  darkness,  and  he  rolls  his  dismal  course  through- 
44  out  the  sky."  A  young  hero,  exulting  in  his 
strength,  and  rushing  towards  his  foes,  exclaims, 
•4  My  beating  soul  is  high  !  My  fame  is  bright  be- 
*4  fore  me,  like  the  streak  of  light  on  a  cloud  when 
44  the  broad  sun  comes  forth,  red  traveller  of  the  sky ! 
♦'  On  another  occasion,  says  a  hero,  I  have  met  the 
*4  battle  in  my  youth.  My  arm  could  not  lift  the 
44  spear  when  first  the  danger  rose  ;  but  my  soul 
44  brightened  before  the  war  as  the  green  narrow 
44  vale,  when  the  sun  pours  his  streamy  beams,  be- 
4k  fore  he  hides  his  head  in  a  storm  I" 


THE    MIRROR, 


f>7 


But  it  would  exceed  the  proper  bounds  of  this  pa" 
per,  were  I  to  bring  together  all  the  passages  which 
might  illustrate  my  remarks.  Without,  therefore, 
quoting  the  beautiful  address  to  the  sun,  which  fi- 
nishes the  second  book  of  Temora,  or  that  at  the  be- 
ginning of  Carricthura,  I  shall  conclude  with  laying 
before  my  readers  that  sublime  passage  at  the  end  of 
Carth©n,  where  the  aged  bard,  thrown  into  melan- 
choly by  the  remembrance  of  that  hero,  thus  pours 
himself  forth  : 

— "  I  feel  the  sun,  O  Malvina !  leave  me  to  my 
u  rest.  The  beam  of  heaven  delights  to  shine  on  the 
"  grave  of  Carthon  ;  I  feel  it  warm  around. 

M  O  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield 
"  of  my  fathers  !  whence  are  thy  beams,  O  Sun  I 
"  thy  everlasting  light  ?  Thou  cornet  forth  in  thy 
"  awful  beauty,  and  the  stars  hide  ^lerrclselves  in  the 
"  sky  :  The  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  wes- 
"  tern  wave,  but  thou  thyself  movest  alone  :  Who 
"  can  be  a  companion  of  thy  course  ?  The  oaks  of 
"  the  mountain  fall ;  the  mountains  themselves  decay 
"  with  years  ;  the  ocean  shrinks,  and  grows  again  ; 
li  the  moon  herself  is  lost  in  heaven  ;  but  thou  art 
u  for  ever  the  same,  rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of 
"  thy  course.  When  the  world  is  dark  trith  tem- 
"  pests  ;  when  thunder  rolls,  and  lightning  flies, 
u  thou  lookest  in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds,  and 
"  laughest  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian  thou  lookest 
"  in  vain  ;  for  he  beholds  thy  beams  no  more ;  whe- 
"  ther  thy  yellow  hair  flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or 
u  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates  of  the  west.  But  thou 
"  art,  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season,  and  thy  years 
"  will  have  an  end.  Thou  shait  sleep  in  thy  clouds, 
"  careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning.  Exult,  then, 
M  O  Sun,  in  the  strength  of  thy  youth  !  Age  is  dark 
"  and  unlovely  ;  it  is  like  the  glimmering  light  of 
g  2 


68  THE    MIRROR. 

"  the  moon  when  it  shines  through  broken  clouds  j 
"  the  blast  of  the  north  is  on  the  plain,  and  the  tra- 
**  veller  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his  journey." 


No.  XIV.     SATURDAY,  MARCH  13. 


-Inertibus  horis 


Ducere  sollicitse  jucunda  oblivia  vitae.  Hor. 

THERE  are  some  weaknesses,  which,  as  they  do 
not  strike  us  with  the  malignity  of  crimes,  and  pro- 
duce their  effects  by  imperceptible  progress,  we  are 
apt  to  consider  a*  venial,  and  make  very  little  scru- 
ple of  indulging.  But  the  habit  which  apologizes  for 
these,  is  a  mischief  of  their  own  creation,  which  it 
behoves  us  early  to  resist.  We  give  way  to  it  at 
first,  because  it  may  be  conquered  at  any  time  ;  and 
at  last,  excuse  ourselves  from  the  contest,  because  it 
has  grown  too  strong  to  be  overcome. 

Of  this  nature  is  indolence,  a  failing,  I  had  almost 
said  a  vice,  of  all  others  the  least  alarming,  yet,  per- 
haps, the  most  fatal.  Dissipation  and  intemperance 
are  often  the  transient  effects  of  youthful  heat,  which 
time  allays,  and  experience  overcomes  ;  but  indo- 
lence "  grows  with  our  growth,  and  strengthens  with 
our  strength,"  till  it  has  weakened  every  exertion 
of  public  and  private  duty  :  yet  so  seducing,  that  its 
evils  are  unfelt,  and  errors  unrepented  of. 

It  is  a  circumstance  of  peculiar  regret,  that  this 
should  often  be  the  propensity  of  delicate  and  amiable 
minds.  Men  unfeeling  and  unsusceptible,  commonly 
beat  the  beaten  track  with  activity  and  resolution  ; 
the    occupations   they  pursue,   and   the  enjoyments 


THE    MIRROR.  69 

they  feel,  seldom  much  disappoint  the  expectations 
they  have  formed  ;  but  persons  endowed  with  that 
nice  perception  of  pleasure  and  pain  which  is  annex- 
ed to  sensibility,  feel  so  much  undescribable  uneasi- 
ness in  their  pursuits,  and  frequently  so  little  satis- 
faction in  their  attainments,  that  they  are  too  often 
induced  to  sit  still,  without  attempting  the  one  or  de- 
siring the  other. 

The  complaints  which  such  persons  make  of  their 
want  of  that  success  which  attends  men  of  inferior 
abilities,  are  as  unjust  as  unavailing.  It  is  from  the 
use,  not  the  possession  of  talents,  that  we  get  on  in 
life  :  the  exertion  of  very  moderate  parts  outweighs 
the  indecision  of  the  brightest.  Men  possessed  of  the 
first,  do  things  tolerably,  and  are  satisfied  ;  of  the 
last,  forbear  doing  things  well,  because  they  have 
ideas  beyond  them. 

When  I  first  resolved  to  publish  this  paper,  I  ap- 
plied to  several  literary  friends  for  their  aid  in  carry- 
ing it  on.  From  one  gentleman  in  London,  I  had, 
in  particular,  very  sanguine  expectations  of  assistance. 
His  genius  and  abilities  I  had  early  opportunities  of 
knowing,  and  he  is  now  in  a  situation  most  favoura- 
ble to  such  productions,  as  he  lives  amidst  the  great 
and  the  busy  world,  without  being  much  occupied  ei- 
ther by  ambition  or  business.  His  compositions  at  col- 
lege, when  I  first  became  acquainted  with  him, 
were  remarkable  for  elegance  and  ingenuity  ;  and, 
as  I  knew  he  still  spent  much  of  his  time  in  reading 
the  best  writers,  ancient  and  modern,  I  made  no 
doubt  of  his  having  attained  such  farther  improve- 
ment of  style  and  extension  of  knowledge,  as 
would  render  him  a  very  valuable  contributor  to  the 
Mirror. 

A  few  days  ago,  more  than  four  months  after  I  had 
sent  him  my  lettea,  I  received  the  following  answer 
to  it. 


7*  THE    MIRROR. 

London,  1st  March,  1779. 
My  dear  Friend, 
I  AM  ashamed  to  look  on  the  date  of  this  letter, 
and  to  recollect  that  of  yours.  I  will  not,  however,* 
add  the  sin  of  hypocrisy  to  my  other  failings,  by  in- 
forming you,  as  is  often  done  in  such  cases,  that  hur- 
ry of  business,  or  want  of  health,  has  prevented  me 
from  answering  your  letter.  I  will  frankly  confess, 
that  I  have  had  abundance  of  leisure,  and  been  per- 
fectly well,  since  I  received  it  ;  I  can  add,  though, 
perhaps  you  may  not  so  easily  believe  me,  that  I  have 
had  as  much  inclination  as  opportunity  ;  but  the  truth 
is,  (you  know  my  weakness  that  way)  I  have  wished, 
resolved,  and  re-resolved  to  write,  as  I  do  by  many- 
other  things,  without  the  power  of  accomplishing  it. 
That  disease  of  indolence,  which  you  and  my  other 
companions  used  to  laugh  at,  grows  stronger  and 
stronger  upon  me  ;  my  symptoms,  indeed,  are  mor- 
tal ;  for  I  begin  now  to  lose  the  power  of  struggling 
against  the  malady,  sometimes  to  shut  my  ears  against 
self  admonition,  and  admit  of  it  as  a  lawful  indul- 
gence. 

Your  letter,  acquainting  me  of  the  design  of  pub- 
lishing a  periodical  paper,  and  asking  my  assistance 
in  carrying  it  on,  found  me  in  one  of  the  paroxysms 
of  my  disorder.  The  fit  seemed  to  give  way  to  the 
call  of  friendship.  I  got  up  from  my  easy  chair, 
walked  two  or  three  turns  through  the  room,  read 
your  letter  again,  looked  at  the  Spectators,  which 
stood,  neatly  bound  and  gilt,  in  the  front  of  my  book- 
press,  called  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  sat  down 
in  the  fervour  of  imagination,  ready  to  combat  vice, 
to  encourage  virtue,  to  form  the  manners,  and  to  re- 
gulate the  taste  of  millions  of  my  fellow-subjects. 
A  field  fruitful  and  unbounded  lay  before  me  ;  I  be- 
gan to  speculate  on  the  prevailing  vices  and  reigning 
follies  of  the  times,  tbe  thousand  topics  which  might 


THE   MIRROR.  71 

arise  for  declamation,  satire,  ridicule,  and  humour  ; 
the  picture  of  manners,  the  shades  of  character,  the 
delicacies  of  sentiment.  I  was  bewildered  amidst 
this  multitude  and  variety  of  subjects,  and  sat  dream- 
ing over  the  redundancy  of  matter  and  the  ease  of 
writing,  till  the  morning  was  spent,  and  my  servant 
announced  dinner. 

I  arose,  satisfied  with  having  thought  much,  and 
laid  in  store  for  writing  much  on  subjects  proper  for 
your  paper.  I  dined,  if  you  will  allow  me  the  ex- 
pression, in  company  with  those  thoughts,  and  drank 
half  a  bottle  of  wine  after  dinner  to  our  better  ac- 
quaintance. When  my  man  took  away,  I  returned 
to  my  study,  sat  down  at  my  writing-table,  folded 
my  paper  into  proper  margins,  wrote  the  word  Mir- 
ror a-top,  and  filling  my  pen  again  drew  up  the  cur- 
tain, and  prepared  to  delineate  the  scene  before  me. 
But  I  found  things  not  quite  in  the  situation  I  had  left 
them  ;  the  groupes  were  more  confused,  the  figures 
less  striking,  the  colours  less  vivid,  than  I  had  seen 
them  before  dinner.  I  continued,  however,  to  look  on 
them — I  know  not  how  long  ;  for  I  was  waked^from 
a  very  sound  nap,  at  half  an  hour  past  six,  by  Peter 
asking  me,  if  I  chose  to  drink  coffee. 

I  was  ashamed  and  vexed  at  the  situation  in  which 
he  found  me.  I  drank  my  first  dish  rather  out  of  hu- 
mour with  myself;  but,  during  the  second,  I  began 
to  account  for  it  from  natural  causes  ;  and,  before 
the  third  was  finished,  had  resolved  that  study  was 
improper  after  repletion,  and  concluded  the*evening 
with  one  of  the  three  Callenderj,  out  of  the  Arabian 
Nights  Entertainment. 

For  all  this  arrear  I  drew,  resolutely,  on  to-morrow, 
and  after  breakfast  prepared  myself  accordingly.  I 
had  actually  gone  so  far  as  to  write  three  introductory 
sentences,  all  of  which  I  burnt,  and  was  just  black- 
ing the  letter  T  for  the  beginning  of  a  fourth,  when 
Peter  opened  the  door,  and  announced  a  gentleman, 


72  THE    MIRROR. 

an  old  acquaintance,  whom  I  had  not  seen  for  a  con- 
siderable time.  After  he  had  sat  with  me  for  mere 
than  an  hour,  he  rose  to  go  away  ;  I  pulled  out  my 
watch,  and  1  will  fairly  own  I  was  not  sorry  to  find 
it  within  a  few  minutes  of  one  ;  so  I  gave  up  the 
morning  for  lost,  and  invited  myself  to  accompany  my 
friend  in  some  visits  he  proposed  making.  Our  tour 
concluded  in  a  dinner  at  a  tavern,  whence  we  repaired 
to  the  play,  and  did  not  part  till  midnight.  I  went 
to  bed  without  much  self-reproach,  by  considering, 
that  intercourse  with  the  world  fits  a  man  for  reform- 
ing it. 

1  need  not  go  through  every  day  of  the  subsequent 
month,  during  which  I  remained  in  town,  though 
there  seldom  passed  one  that  did  not  remind  me  of 
what  I  owed  to  your  friendship.  It  is  enough  to  tell 
you,  that,  during  the  first  fortnight,  I  always  found 
some  apology  for  delaying  the  execution  of  my  pur- 
pose ;  and,  during  the  last,  contented  myself  with  the 
prospect  of  the  leisure  I  should  soon  enjoy  in  the 
country,  to  which  I  was  invited  by  a  relation,  to  spend 
some  time  with  him  previous  to  his  coming  to  town 
for  the  winter.  I  arrived  at  his  house  about  the  mid- 
dle of  December.  I  locked  on  his  fields,  his  walks, 
and  his  woods,  which  the  extreme  mildness  of  the 
season  had  still  left  in  the  garb  of  Thomson's  philo- 
sophic melancholy,  as  scenes  full  of  inspiration,  in 
which  genius  might  try  her  wings,  and  wisdom  medi- 
tate, without  interruption.  But  I  am  obliged  to  own, 
that  though  I  have  walked  there  many  a  time  ;  though 
my  fancy  was  warmed  with  the  scene,  and  shot  out 
into  a  thousand  excursions  over  the  regions  of  ro- 
mance, of  melancholy,  of  sentiment,  of  humour,  of 
criticism,  and  of  science,  she  returned,  like  the  first 
messenger  of  Noah,  without  having  found  a  resting- 
place  ;  and  I  have,  at  last  strolled  back  to  the  house, 
where  I  sat  listless  in  my  chamber,  with  the  irksome 
consciousness  of  some  unperformed  resolution,  from 


THE    MIRROR,  73 

which  I  was  glad  to  be    relieved  by  a  summons   to 
billiards,  or  a  call  to  dinner. 

Thus  have  I  returned  to  town,  as  unprofitable  in 
the  moments  of  solitude  and  retirement,  as  in  those 
of  business  or  society.  Do  not  smile  at  the  word 
business :  what  would  be  idleness  to  you,  is  to  me 
very  serious  employment ;  besides,  you  know  very 
well,  that  to  be  idle,  is  often  to  be  least  at  leisure.  I  am 
now  almost  hardy  enough  to  lay  aside  altogether  my 
resolution  of  writing  in  your  paper  ;  but  I  find  that 
resolution  a  sort  of  bond  against  me,  till  you  are  good 
enough  to  cancel  it,  by  saying  you  do  not  expect  me 
to  write.  I  have  made  a  more  than  ordinary  effort 
to  give  you  this  sincere  account  of  my  attempt  to  as- 
sist you.  I  have  at  least  the  consolation  of  thinking, 
that  you  will  not  need  my  assistance.  Believe  me, 
with  all  my  failings, 

Most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 


P.  S.  I  have  just  now  learned  by  accident,  that  my 
nephew,  a  lad  of  fifteen,  who  is  come  to  town  from 
Harrow-school,  and  lives  at  present  with  me,  hating 
seen  one  of  your  numbers  about  a  week  ago,  has  al- 
ready written,  and  intends  transmitting  you,  a  poli- 
tical essay,  signed  Aristides,  a  pastoral,  subscribed 
X.  Y.  and  an  acrostic  on  Miss  E.  M.  without  a  sig- 
nature. 

V 


74  THE   MIRROR. 


No.  XV.    TUESDAY,  MARCH  16. 

Doctrina  sed  vim  promovet  insitam, 

Rcctique  cult  us  pcctora  roborant.  Hor. 

HOWEVER  widely  the  thinking  part  of  mankind 
may  have  differed  as  to  the  proper  mode  of  conduct- 
ing education,  they  have  always  been  unanimous  in 
their  opinion  of  its  importance.  The  outward  effects 
of  it  are  observed  by  the  most  inattentive.  They 
know,  that  the  clown  and  the  dancing-master  are 
the  same  from  the  hand  of  nature  ;  and,  although  a 
a  little  farther  reflection  is  requisite  to  perceive  the 
effects  of  culture  on  the  internal  senses,  it  cannot  be 
disputed,  that  the  mind,  like  the  body,  when  arrived 
at  firmness  and  maturity,  retains  the  impressions  it 
received  in  a  more  pliant  and  tender  age. 

The  greatest  part  of  mankind,  born  to  labour  for 
their  subsistence,  are  fixed  in  habits  of  industry  by 
the  iron  hand  of  necessity.  They  have  little  time  or 
opportunity  for  the  cultivation  of  the  understanding  ; 
the  errors  and  immoralities  in  their  conduct,  that 
flow  from  the  want  of  those  sentiments  which  educa- 
tion is  intended  to  produce,  will,  on  that  account,  meet 
with  indulgence  from  every  benevolent  mind.  But 
those  who  are  placed  in  a  conspicuous  station,  whose 
vices  become  more  complicated  and  destructive,  by 
the  abuse  of  knowledge,  and  the  misapplication  of 
improved  talents,  have  no  title  to  the  same  indul- 
gence. Their  guilt  is  heightened  by  the  rank  and 
fortune  which,  protect  them  from  punishment,  and 
which,  in  some  degree,  preserve  them  from  that  in- 
famy their  conduct  has  merited. 

I  hold  it,  then,  incontrovertible,  that  the  higher  the 
rank,  the  more  urgent  is  the  necessity  for  storing  the 
mind  with  the  principles,  and  directing  the  passions 
to  the  practice  of  public  and  private  virtue.     Perhaps 


THE    MIRROR.  75 

it  might  not  be  impossible  to  form  plans  of  education, 
to  lay  down  rules,  and  contrive  institutions,  for  the 
instruction  of  youth  of  all  ranks,  that  would  have  a 
general  influence  upon  manners.  But  this  is  an  at- 
tempt too  arduous  for  a  private  hand  ;  it  can  be  ex- 
pected only  from  the  great  council  of  the  nation, 
when  they  shall  be  pleased  to  apply  their  experienced 
wisdom  and-  penetration  to  so  material  an  object, 
which,  in  some  future  period,  may  be  found  not  less 
deserving  their  attention  than  those  important  debates 
in  which  they  are  frequently  engaged,  whieh  they 
conduct  with  an  elegance,  a  decorum,  and  a  public 
spirit,  becoming  the  incorrupted,  disinterested,  virtu- 
ous representatives  of  a  great  and  flourishing  people. 

While  in  expectation  of  this,  perhaps  distant,  xra, 
I  hope  it  will  not  be  unacceptable  to  my  readers 
to  suggest  some  hints  that  may  be  useful  in  the  edu- 
cation of  the  gentleman,  to  try  if  it  be  not  possible  to 
form  an  alliance  between  the  virtues  and  the  graces, 
the  man  and  the  citizen,  and  produce  a  being  less 
dishonourable  to  the  species  than  the  courtier  of  Lord 
Chesterfield,  and  more  useful  to  society  than  the  sa- 
vage of  Rosseau. 

The  sagacious  Locke,  toward  the  end  of  the  last 
century,  gave  to  the  public  some  thoughts  on  educa- 
tion, the  general  merit  of  which  leave  room  to  regret 
that  he  did  not  find  time,  as  he  seems  once  to  have 
intended,  to  revise  what  he  had  written,  and  give  a 
complete  treatise  on  the  subject.  But  with  all  the 
veneration  I  feel  for  that  great  man,  and  all  the  re- 
spect that  is  due  to  him,  I  cannot  help  being  of  opi- 
nion, that  some  of  his  observations  have  laid  the  foun- 
dation of  that  defective  system  of  education,  the  fatal 
consequences  of  which  are  so  well  described  by  my 
correspondent  in  the  letter  published  in  my  fourth 
number.  Mr.  Locke,  sensible  of  the  labyrinth  with 
which  the  pedantry  of  the  learned  had  surrounded 
all  the  avenues  to  science,  successfully  employed  the 

vol.  i.  h 


76  THE    MIRROR. 

strength  of  his  genius  to  trace  knowledge  to  her 
source,  and  point  out  the  direct  read  to  succeeding 
generations.  Disgusted  with  the  schoolmen,  he,  from 
a  prejudice  to  which  even  great  minds  are  liable, 
seems  to  have  contracted  a  dislike  to  every  thing 
they  taught,  and  even  to  the  languages  in  which  they 
wrote.  He  scruples  not  to  speak  of  grammar  as  un- 
necessary to  the  perfect  knowledge  either  of  the  dead 
or  living  languages,  and  to  affirm,  that  a  part  of  the 
years  thrown  away  in  the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin, 
would  be  better  employed  in  learning  the  trades  of 
gardeners  and  turners  ;  as  if  it  were  a  fitter  and  more 
useful  recreation  for  a  gentleman  to  plant  potatoes, 
and  to  make  chess-boards,  and  snuff-boxes,  than  to 
study  the  beauties  of  Cicero  and  Homer. 

It  will  be  allowed  by  all,  that  the  great  purpose  of 
education  is  to  form  the  man  and  the  citizen,  that  he 
may  be  virtuous,  happy  in  himself,  and  useful  to  so- 
ciety. To  attain  this  end,  his  education  should  begin, 
as  it  were,  from  his  birth,  and  be  continued  till  he  ar- 
rive at  firmness  and  maturity  of  mind,  as  well  as  of 
body.  Sincerity,  truth,  justice,  and  humanity,  are  to 
be  cultivated  from  the  first  dawnings  of  memory  and 
observation.  As  the  powers  of  these  increase,  the 
genius  and  disposition  unfold  themselves  ;  it  then  be- 
comes necessary  to  check,  in  the  bud,  every  propen- 
sity to  folly  or  to  vice  'r  to  root  out  every  mean,  selfish, 
and  ungenerous  sentiment  ;  to  warm  and  animate 
the  heart  in  the  pursuit  of  virtue  and  honour.  The 
experience  of  ages  has  hitherto  discovered  no  surer 
method  of  giving  right  impressions  to  young  minds, 
than  by  frequently  exhibiting  to  them  those  bright 
examples  which  history  affords,  and,  by  that  means, 
inspiring  them  with  those  sentiments  of  public  and 
private  virtue  which  breathe  in  the  writings  of  the 
sages  of  antiquity. 

In  this  view,  I  have  ever  considered  the  acquisition 
of  frhe  dead  languages  as  a  most  important  branch  in 


THE    MIRROR.  77 

the  education  of  a  gentleman.  Not  to  mention  that 
the  slowness  with  which  he  acquires  them,  prevents 
his  memory  from  being*  loaded  with  facts  faster  than 
his  growing  reason  can  compare  and  distinguish,  he 
beomes  acquainted  by  degrees  with  the  virtuous  cha- 
racters of  ancient  times;  he  admires  their  justice, 
temperance,  fortitude,  and  public  spirit,  and  burns 
with  a  desire  to  imitate  them.  The  impressions  these 
have  made,  and  the  restraints  to  which  he  has  been 
accustomed,  serve  as  a  check  to  the  many  tumultuous 
passions  which  the  ideas  of  religion  alone  would,  at 
that  age,  be  unable  to  controul.  Every  victory  he 
obtains  over  himself  serve  as  a  new  guard  to  virtue. 
When  he  errs,  he  becomes  sensible  of  his  weakness, 
which,  at  the  sajne  time  that  it  teaches  him  mode- 
ration, and  forgiveness  to  others,  shews  the  necessity 
of  keeping  a  stricter  watch  over  hia  own  actions. 
During  these  combats,  his  reasoning  faculties  expand, 
his  judgment  strengthens,  and,  while  he  becomes  ac- 
quainted with  the  corruptions  of  the  world,  he  fixes 
himself  in  the  practice  of  virtue. 

A  man  thus  educated,  enters  upon  the  theatre  of 
the  world  with  many  and  great  advantages.  Accus- 
tomed to  reflection,  acquainted  with  human  nature, 
the  strength  of  virtue,  and  depravity  of  vice,  he  can 
trace  actions  to  their  source,  and  be  enabled,  in  the 
affairs  of  life,  to  avail  himself  of  the  wisdom  and  ex- 
perience of  past  ages. 

Very  different  is  the  modern  plan  of  education  fol- 
lowed by  many,  especially  with  the  children  of  per- 
sons in  superior  rank.  They  are  introduced  into  the 
world  almost  from  their  very  infancy.  In  place  of 
having  their  minds  stored  with  the  bright  examples 
of  antiquity,  or  those  of  modern  times,  the  first  know- 
ledge they  acquire  is  of  the  vices  with  wliich  they  are 
surrounded  ;  and  they  learn  what  mankind  are,  with- 
out ever  knowing  what  they  ought  to  be.  Possessed 
of  no  sentiment  of  virtue,  of  no  social  affection,  they 


78  THE    MIRROR. 

indulge,  to  the  utmost  of  their  ability,  the  gratifica- 
tion of  every  selfish  appetite,  without  any  other  re- 
straint than  what  self-interest  dictates.  In  men  thus 
educated,  youth  is  not  the  season  of  virtue  ;  they  have 
contracted  the  cold  indifference  and  all  the  vices  of 
age,  long  before  they  arrive  at  manhood.  If  they 
attain  to  the  great  oftlces  of  the  state,  they  become 
ministers  as  void  of  knowledge  as  of  principle  ;  equally 
regardless  of  the  national  honour  as  of  their  own, 
their  system  of  government  (if  it  can  be  called  a  sys- 
tem) looks  not  beyond  the  present  moment,  and  any 
apparent  exertions  for  the  public  good  are  meant  only 
as  pi  ops  to  support  themselves  in  office.  In  the 
field,  at  the  head  of  armies,  indifferent  as  to  the  fate 
of  their  fellow-soldiers,  or  of  their  country,  they  make 
their  power  the  minister  of  their  pleasures.  If  the 
Wisdom  of  their  sovereign  should,  happily  for  him- 
self and  his  country,  shut  them  out  from  his  coun- 
cils, should  they  be  confined  to  a  private  station, 
finding  no  entertainment  in  their  own  breasts,  a9 
void  of  friends  as  incapable  of  friendship,  they  sink 
reflection  in  a  life  of  dissipation. 

If  the  probable  consequences  of  those  different 
modes  of  education  be  such  as  I  have  mentioned, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  to  which  the  preference  be- 
longs, even  though  that  which  is  preferred  should  be 
less  conducive  than  its  opposite  to  those  elegant  ac- 
complishments which  decorate  society.  But,  upon 
examination,  I  believe  even  this  objection  will  vanish  ; 
for,  although  I  willingly  admit,  that  a  certain  degree 
of  pedantry  is  inseparable  from  the  learning  of  the 
divine,  the  physician,  or  the  lawyer,  which  a  late 
commerce  with  the  world  is  unable  to  wear  off,  yet 
learning  is,  in  no  respect,  inconsistent,  either  with 
that  graceful  ease  and  elegance  of  address  peculiar 
to  men  of  fashion,  or  with  what,  in  modern  phrase, 
is  called  knowledge  of  the  world.  The  man  of  su- 
perior accomplishments  will,  indeed,  be   indifferent 


THE    MIRROR.  79 

about  many  things  which  are  the  chief  objects  of  at- 
tention to  the  modern  fine  gentleman.  To  conform 
to  all  the  minute  changes  of  the  mode,  to  be  admired 
for  the  gaudiness  of  his  equipage,  to  boast  of  his 
success  in  intrigue,  or  publish  favours  he  never  re- 
ceived, will,  to  him,  appear  frivolous  and  disho- 
nourable. 

As  many  of  the  bad  effects  of  the  present  system  of 
education  may  be  attributed  to  a  premature  introduc- 
tion into  the  world,  I  shall  conclude  this  paper  by  re- 
minding those  parents  and  guardians  who  are  so  anxi- 
ous to  bring  their  children  and  pupils  early  into  pub- 
lic life,  that  one  of  the  finest  gentlemen,  the  brightest 
geniuses,  the  most  useful  and  best  informed  citizens 
of  which  antiquity  has  left  us  an  example,  did  not 
think  himself  qualified  to  appear  in  public  till  the  age 
of  twenty-six,  and  continued  his  studies,  for  some  years 
after,  under  the  eminent  teachers  of  Greece  anjl 
Rome. 

II 


No.  XVI.     SATURDAY,  MARCH  20. 

O  prima  vera  gioventu  de  I'anno, 

Bella  madre  di  fiori, 

D'crbe  novelle,  e  di  novelli  amori ; 

Tu  torni  ben,  ma  teco 

No  tornano  i  sereui 

E  fortunati  di  de  le  mie  gioie.  Guarixi: 

THE  effects  of  the  return  of  Spring  have  been  fre- 
quently remarked,  as  well  in  relation  to  the  human 
mind,  as  to  the  animal  and  vegetable  world.  The  re- 
viving power  of  this  season  lias  been  traced  from  the 
fields  to  the  herds  that  inhabit  them,  and  from  the 
lower  classes  of  beings  up  to  man.  Gladness  and  joy 
are  described  as  prevailing  through  universal  nature, 
h  2 


80  THK    MIRROR. 

animating  the  low  of  the  cattle,  the  carrol  of  the  birds, 
and  the  pipe  of  the  shepherd. 

I  know  not  if  it  be  from  a  singular,  or  a  censurable 
disposition,  that  I  have  often  felt  in  my  own  mind 
something  very  different  from  this  gaiety,  supposed 
to  be  the  inseparable  attendant  of  the  vernal  scene. 
Amidst  the  returning  verdure  of  the  earth,  the  mild- 
ness of  the  air,  and  the  sky,  I  have  found  a  still  and 
quiet  melancholy  take  possession  of  my  soul,  which 
the  beauty  of  the  landscape,  and  the  melody  of  the 
birds,  rather  soothed  than  overcame. 

Perhaps  some  reason  may  be  given  why  this  sort 
of  feeling  should  prevail  over  the  mind,  in*  those 
moments  of  deeper  pensiveness  to  which  every  think- 
ing mind  is  liable,  more  at  this  time  of  the  year 
than  at  any  other.  Spring,  as  the  renewal  of  verdure 
and  of  vegetation,  becomes  naturally  the  season  of 
remembrance.  We  are  surrounded  with  objects  new 
only  in  their  revival,  but  which  we  acknowledge  as 
our  acquaintance  in  the  years  that  are  past.  Winter, 
which  stopped  the  progression  of  nature,  removed 
them  from  us  for  a  while,  and  we  meet,  like  friends 
long  parted,  with  emotions  rather  of  tenderness  than 
of  gaiety. 

The  train  of  ideas  once  awaked,  memory  follows 
over  a  very  extensive  field.  And,  in  such  a  disposi- 
tion of  mind,  objects  of  cheerfulness  and  delight  are, 
from  those  very  qualities,  the  most  adapted  to  inspire 
that  milder  sort  of  sadness  which,  in  the  language 
of  our  native  bard,  is  "  pleasant  and  mournful  to 
the  soul."  They  will  inspire  this,  not  only  from  the 
recollection  of  the  past,  but  from  the  prospect  of  the 
future ;  as  an  anxious  parent,  amidst  the  sportive 
gaiety  of  the  child,  often  thinks  of  the  cares  of  man- 
hood and  the  sorrows  of  age. 

This  effect  will,  at  least,  be  commonly  felt  by  per- 
sons who  have  lived  long  enough  to  see,  and  had  re- 
flection  enough  to  observe,  the  vicissitudes  of  life. 


THE   MIRROR.  81 

Even  those  who  have  never  experienced  severe  cala- 
mities, will  find,  in  the  review  of  their  years,  a  thou- 
sand instances  of  fallacious  promises  and  disappointed 
hopes.  The  dream  of  childhood,  and  the  project  of 
youth,  have  vanished  to  give  place  to  sensations  cf  a 
very  different  kind.  In  the  peace  and  beauty  of  the 
rural  scene  which  Spring  first  unfolds  to  us,  we  are 
apt  to  recal  the  former  state,  with  an  exaggerated 
idea  of  its  happiness,  and  to  feel  the  present  with 
increased  dissatisfaction. 

But  the  pencil  of  memory  stops  not  with  the  re- 
presentation of  ourselves  ;  it  traces  also  the  compa- 
nions and  friends  of  our  early  days,  and  marks  the 
changes  which  they  have  undergone.  It. is  a  dizzy 
sort  of  recollection  to  think  over  the  names  of  our 
school-fellows,  and  to  consider  how  very  few  of  them 
the  maze  of  accidents,  and  the  sweep  of  time,  have 
left  within  our  reach.  This,  however,  is  less  pointed 
than  the  reflection  on  the  fate  of  those  whom  affinity 
or  friendship  linked  to  our  side,  whom  distance  of 
place,  premature  death,  or  (sometimes  not  a  less 
painful  consideration)  estrangement  or  affection,  has 
disjoined  from  us  for  ever. 

I  am  not  sure  if  the  disposition  to  reflections  of 
this  sort  be  altogether  a  safe  or  a  proper  one.  1  am 
aware,  that,  if  too  much  indulged,  or  allowed  to  be- 
come habitual,  it  may  disqualify  the  mind  for  the 
more  active  and  bustling  scenes  of  life,  and  unfit  it 
for  the  enjoyments  of  ordinary  society  ;  but,  in  a  cer- 
tain degree,  1  am  persuaded  it  may  be  found  useful. 
We  are  all  of  us  too  little  inclined  to  look  into  our 
own  minds,  all  apt  to  put  too  high  a  value,  on  the 
things  of  this  life.  But  a  man  under  the  impressions 
1  have  described,  will  be  led  to  look  into  himself,  and 
will  see  the  vanity  of  setting  his  heart  upon  external 
enjoyment.  He  will  feel  nothing  of  that  unsocial 
spirit  which  gloomy  and  ascetic  severities  inspire  ; 
but  the  gentle,  and  not  unpleasing  melancholy  that 


82  THE   MIRROR. 

•will  be  diffused  over  his  soul,  will  fill  it  with  a  calm 
and  sweet  benevolence,  will  elevate  him  much  above 
any  mean  or  selfish  passion.  It  will  teach  him  to 
look  upon  the  rest  of  the  world  as  his  brethren,  tra- 
velling the  same  road,  and  subject  to  the  like  cala- 
mities with  himself  ;  it  will  prompt  his  wish  to  alle- 
viate and  assuage  the  bitterness  of  their  sufferings, 
and  extinguish  in  his  heart  every  sentiment  of  male- 
volence or  of  envy. 

Amidst  the  tide  of  pleasure  which  flows  on  a  mind 
of  little  sensibility,  there  may  be  much  social  joy, 
without  any  social  affection  ;  but,  in  a  heart  of  the 
mould  I  allude  to  above,  though  the  joy  maybe  less, 
there  will,  I  believe,  be  more  happiness  and  more 
virtue. 

It  is  rarely  from  the  precepts  of  the  moralist,  or 
the  mere  sense  of  duty,  that  we  acquire  the  virtues 
of  gentleness,  disinterestedness,  benevolence  and  hu- 
manity. The  feelings  must  be  won,  as  well  as  the 
reason  convinced,  before  men  change  their  conduct. 
To  them  tr  e  world  addresses  itself,  and  is  heard  ;  it 
offers  pleasure  to  the  present  hour  ;  and  the  promise 
of  satisfaction  in  the  future  is  too  often  preached  in 
vain.  But  he  who  can  feel  that  luxury  of  pensive 
tenderness,  of  which  I  have  given  some  faint  sketches 
in  this  paper,  will  not  easily  be  won  from  the  pride 
of  virtue,  and  the  dignity  of  thought,  to  the  inordi- 
nate gratifications  of  vice,  or  the  intemperate  amuse- 
ments of  folly. 


THE    MIRROR.  83 

No.  XVII.     TUESDAY,  MARCH  23. 

Insanit  veteres  statuas  Damasippus  emendo.     Hob. 
To  the  Editor  of  the  Mirror. 

Sir, 

AS  1  am  persuaded  that  you  will  not  think  it  with- 
out the  province  of  a  work  such  as  yours,  to  throw 
your  eye  sometimes  upon  the  inferior  ranks  of  life, 
where  there  is  any  error  that  calls  loud  for  amend- 
ment, I  will  make  no  apology  for  sending;  you  the 
following  narrative. 

I  was  married,  about  five  years  ago,  to  a  young 
man  in  a  good  way  of  business  as  a  grocer,  whose 
character,  for  sobriety,  and  diligence  in  his  trade, 
was  such  as  to  give  me  the  assurance  of  a  very  com- 
fortable establishment  in  the  mean  time,  and,  in  case 
Providence  should  bless  us  with  children,  the  pros- 
pect of  making  a  tolerable  provision  for  them.  For 
three  years  after  our  marriage  there  never  was  a  hap- 
pier couple.  Our  shop  was  so  well  frequented,  as  to 
require  the  constant  attendance  of  both  of  us  ;  and, 
as  it  was  my  greatest  pleasure,  to  see  the  cheerful 
activity  of  my  husband,  and  the  obliging  attention 
which  hi  shewed  to  every  customer,  he  has  often, 
during  that  happy  time,  declared  to  me,  that  the 
sight  of  my  face  behind  the  counter  (though,  indeed, 
Sir>  my  looks  are  but  homely)  made  him  think  his 
humble  condition  far  more  blest  than  that  of  the 
wealthiest  of  our  neighbours,  whose  possessions  de- 
prived them  of  the  high  satisfaction  of  purchasing, 
by  their  daily  labour,  the  comfort  and  happiness  of 
a  beloved  object. 

In  the  evenings,  after  our  small  repast,  which,  if 
the  day  had  been  more  than  usually  busy,  we  some- 
times ventured  to  finish  with  a  glass  or  two  of  punch, 


84  THE    MIRROR. 

while  my  husband  was  constantly  engaged  with  his 
books  and  accounts,  it  was  my  employment  to  sit  by 
his  side  knitting,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  tend  the 
cradle  of  our  first  child,  a  girl,  who  is  now  a  fine 
prattling  creature  of  four  years  of  age,  and  begins 
already  to  give  me  some  little  assistance  in  the  care 
of  her  younger  brother  and  sister. 

Such  was  the  picture  of  our  little  family,  in  which 
we  once  enjoyed  all  that  happiness  that  virtuous  in- 
dustry, and  the  most  perfect  affection,  can  bestow. 
But  those  pleasing  days,  Mr.  Mirror,  are  now  at  an 
end. 

The  sources  of  unhappiness  in  my  situation  are 
very  different  from  those  of  other  unfortunate  mar- 
ried persons.  It  is  not  of  my  husband's  idleness  or 
extravagance,  his  ill-nature  or  his  avarice,  that  I  have 
to  complain  ;  neither  are  we  unhappy  from  any  de- 
crease of  affection,  or  disagreement  in  our  opinions. 
But  I  will  not,  Sir,  keep  you  longer  in  suspense. 
In  short,  it  is  my  misfortune  that  my  husband  is 
become  a  man  of  taste. 

The  first  symptom  of  this  malady,  for  it  is  now 
become  a  disease  indeed,  manifested  itself,  as  I  have 
said,  about  two  years  ago,  when  it  was  my  husband's 
ill  luck  to  receive  one  day  from  a  customer,  in  pay- 
ment of  a  pound  of  sugar,  a  crooked  piece  of  silver, 
which  he,  at  first,  mistook  for  a  shilling,  but  found, 
on  examination,  to  have  some  strange  characters 
upon  it,  which  neither  of  us  could  make  any  thing 
of.  An  acquaintance  coming  in,  who,  it  seems,  had 
some  knowledge  of  those  matters,  declared  it  at  once 
to  be  a  very  curious  coin  of  Alexander  the  Third  ; 
and,  affirming  that  he  knew  a  virtuoso  who  would  be 
extremely  glad  to  be  possessed  of  it,  bid  him  half  a 
guinea  for  it  upon  the  spot.  My  poor  husband,  who 
knew  as  little  of  Alexander  the  Third  as  of  Alexan- 
der the  Great,  or  his  other  namesake  the  Co  hfier  smith, 
was  nevertheless  persuaded,  from  the   extent  of  the 


THE    MIRROR.  85 

offer,  and  of  the  opinion  he  had  of  his  friend's  dis- 
cernment, that  he  was  possessed  of  a  very  valuable 
curiosity  ;  and  in  this  he  was  fully  confirmed,  when, 
on  shewing    it  to   the  virtuoso   above-mentioned,  he 
was  immediately  offered   triple  the  sum.       This  too 
was  rejected,  and  the  crooked  coin  was  now  judged 
inestimable.    It  would  tire  your  patience,  Mr.  Mirror, 
to  describe  minutely  the  progress  of  my  husband's 
delirium.     The  neighbours  soon  heard  of  our  acqui- 
sition, and  flocked  to  be  indulged  with  a  sight  of  it. 
Others   who    had   valuable   curiosities   of  the  same 
kind,  but  who  were   prudent   enough  not  to  reckon 
them  quite  beyond  all  price,  were,  by  much  entrea- 
ty, prevailed  on  by  my  husband  to  exchange  them 
for  guineas,  half  guineas,  and  crown  pieces  ;  so  that, 
in   about  a  month's   time,  he   could   boast  of  being 
possessed  of  twenty  pieces,  all  of  inestimable  value, 
which  cost  him  only  the  trifling  sum  of  181.  12s.  6d. 
But  the  malady  did  not  rest  here  ;  it  is  a  dreadful 
thing,  Mr.  Mirror,  to  get  a  taste.      It  ranges  from 
"  heaven   above,  to  the   earth  beneath,  and   to  the 
"  waters  under  the  earth."     Every  production  of  na- 
ture, or  of  art,  remarkable  either  for  beauty  or  de- 
formity, but  particularly,  if  either  scarce  or  old,  is 
now  the  object  of  my  husband's  avidity.     The  profits 
of  our   business,  once    considerable,  but  now   daily 
diminishing,  are   expended,  not  only   on  coins,  but 
on   shells,  lumps  of  different-coloured   stones,  dried 
butterflies,  old   pictures,  ragged  books,  and   worm- 
eaten  parchments. 

Our  house,  which  it  was  once  my  highest  pleasure 
to  keep  in  order,  it  would  be  now  equally  vain  to  at- 
tempt cleaning  as  the  ark  of  Noah.  The  children's 
bed  is  supplied  by  an  Indian  canoe  ;  and  the  poor  little 
creatures  sleep  three  of  them  in  a  hammock,  slung 
up  to  the  roof  between  a  stuffed  crocodile  and  the 
skeleton  of  a  calf  with  two  heads.  Even  the  com- 
modities of  our  shop  have  been  turned  out  to  make 


86  THE    MIRR6R. 

room  for  trash  and  vermin.  Kites,  owls,  and  bats, 
are  perched  upon  the  top  of  our  shelves  ;  and,  it  was 
but  yesterday,  that,  putting  my  hand  into  a  glass  jar 
that  used  to  contain  pickles,  I  laid  hold  of  a  large 
tarantula  in  place  of  a  mangoe. 

In  the  bitterness  of  my  soul,  Mr.  Mirror,  I  have 
been  often  tempted  to  revenge  myself  on  the  objects 
of  my  husband's  phrenzy,  by  burning,  smashing,  and 
destroying  them  without  mercy  ;  but,  besides  that 
such  violent  procedure  might  have  effects  too  dread- 
ful upon  a  brain  which,  1  fear,  is  already  much  un- 
settled, I  could  not  take  such  a  course,  without  being 
guilty  of  a  fraud  to  our  creditors,  several  of  whom 
will,  I  believe,  sooner  or  later,  find  it  their  only  means 
of  reimbursement,  to  take  back  each  man  his  own 
monsters. 

Meantime,  Sir,  as  my  husband  constantly  peruses 
your  paper,  (one  instance  of  his  taste  which  I  cannot 
object  to)  I  have  some  small  hopes  that  a  good  effect 
may  be  produced  by  giving  him  a  fair  view  of  him- 
self in  your  moral  looking-glass.  If  such  should  be  the 
happy  consequence  of  your  publishing  this  letter, 
you  shall  have  the  sincerest  thanks  of  a  grateful 
heart,  from  your  now  disconsolate  humble  servant, 

Rebecca  Prune. 

I  cannot  help  expressing  my  suspicion  that  Mrs. 
Rebecca  Prune  has  got  somebody  to  write  her  letter. 
If  she  wrote  it  herself,  I  am  afraid  it  may  be  thought 
that  the  grocer's  wife,  who  is  so  knowing  in  what 
she  describes,  and  can  joke  so  learnedly  on  her 
spouse's  ignorance  of  the  three  Alexanders,  has  not 
much  reason  to  eomplaia  of  her  husband  being  a  man 
of  taste. 

Her  case,  however,  is  truly  distressful,  and,  in 
the  particular  species  of  her  husband's  disorder,  ra- 
ther uncommon.  The  taste  of  a  man  in  his  station, 
generally  looks  for  some  reputation  from  his  neigh- 


THE   MIRROR.  87 

hours  and  the  world,  and  walks  out  of  doors  to  shew 
itself  to  both. 

1  remember,  a  good  many  years  ago,  to  have  visited 
the  villa  of  a  citizen  of  Bath,  who  had  made  a  con- 
siderable  fortune    by  the  profession  of  a  toyman  in 
that  city.     It  was  curious  to  observe  how  much  he 
had  carried  the  ideas  of  his  trade  into  his  house  and 
grounds,  if  such   might  be  called  a  kind  of  Gothic 
building,  of  about    18   feet  by  12,  and  an  inclosure, 
somewhat   short  of  an   acre.      The  first   had  only  a 
few  closets  within  ;  but  it  made  a  most  gallant  and 
warlike  show  without.     It  had  turrets  about  the  size 
of  the   king   at  nine  pins,  and  battlements   like  the 
side-crust  of  a  Christmas  goose-pye.     To  complete 
the  appearance    of  a  castle,    we  entered  by  a  draw- 
bridge, which,  in  construction  and  dimensions,  exact- 
ly resembled  the  lid  of  a  travelling  trunk.      To  the 
right  of  the   house  was  a   puddle,  which,  however, 
was  dignified   with  a  harbour,  defended    by  two  re- 
doubts, under  cover  of  which  lay  a  vessel  of  the  size 
of  an  ordinary  bathing  tub,  mounting    a  parcel  of 
old  tooth -pick-cases,  fitted  up  into  guns,  and  manned 
with  some  of  the  toyman's  little  family  of  play -thing 
figures,  with  red  jackets,  and  striped  trowsers,  whom 
he  had  impressed  into  the  service.     The  place  where 
this  vessel  lay,  a  fat  little  man,  whom  I  met  on  the 
shore,  who  seemed  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  the 
proprietor,  informed    me  was   called   Spithead,  and 
the  ship's  name,  he  told  me,  pointing  to  the  picture 
on  her  stern,  was  the  Victory. 

This  gentleman  afterwards  conducted  me,  not  with- 
out some  fear,  across  a  Chinese  bridge,  to  a  pagoda, 
In  which  it  was  necessary  to  assume  the  posture  of 
devotion,  as  there  was  not  room  to  stand  upright.  On 
the  sides  of  the  great  serpentine  walk,  as  he  termed 
it,  by  which  we  returned  from  this  edifice,  I  found  a 
device,  which  my  Cicerone  looked  upon  as  a  master- 
stroke of  genius.     The  ground  was  shaped  into  the 

VOL.   I.  I 


*8  THE   MIRROR. 

figures  of  the  different  suits  of  cards  ;  so  that  here 
was  the  heart  walk,  the  diamond  walk,  the  club  walk, 
and  the  spade  walk  ;  the  last  of  which  had  the  ad- 
ditional advantage  of  being  sure  to  produce  a  pun. 
On  my  observing  how  pleasant  and  ingenious  all  this 
was,  my  conductor  answered,  "  Ay,  ay,  let  him 
"  alone  for  that ;  he  has  given  them  a  little  of  every 
"  thing,  you  see  ;  and  so  he  may,  Sir,  for  he  can 
"  very  well  afford  it." 

I  believe  we  must  rest  the  matter  here.  In  this 
land  of  freedom,  there  is  no  restraining  the  liberty 
of  being  ridiculous  ;  I  would  only  intreat  Mr.  Prune, 
and,  indeed,  many  of  his  betters,  to  have  some  re- 
gard for  their  wives  and  families,  and  not  to  make 
fools  of  themselves,  till,  like  the  Bath  toyman,  they 
can  very  well  afford  it. 


No.  XVIII.  SATURDAY,  MARCH  27. 

Laudabunt  alii  claram  Rhodanaut  Mytelenen.  Hon. 

NOTHING  is  more  amusing  to  a  traveller  than 
to  observe  the  different  characters  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  countries  through  which  he  passes  ;  and  to 
find,  upon  crossing  a  river  or  a  mountain,  has  mark- 
ed a  difference  in  the  manners,  the  sentiments,  and 
the  opinions  of  the  people,  as  in  their  appearance, 
their  dress,  or  their  language.  Thus,  the  easy  viva- 
city of  the  French,  is  as  opposite  to  the  dignified 
gravity  of  the  Spaniard,  on  the  one  hand,  as  it  is  to 
the  phlegmatic  dulness  of  the  German  on  the  other. 
But,  though  all  allow  that  every  nation  has  some 
striking  feature,  some  distinguishing  characteristic, 
philosophers  are  not  agreed  as  to  the  causes  of  that 


THE    MIRROR.  89 

distinction.  Montesquieu  has  exerted  all  the  powers 
of  his  genius  to  prove,  that  difference  of  climate  is 
the  chief,  or  only  the  cause  of  the  difference  of  na- 
tional characters  ;  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  the 
opinion  of  so  great  a  man  should  have  gained  much 
ground.  None  of  his  followers  has  carried  the  mat- 
ter farther  than  the  author  of  Recherches  Philoso- 
phiques  sur  les  Americains,  whose  chief  object 
seems  to  have  been  to  show,  that  the  climate  of 
America  is  of  such  a  nature,  that,  from  it3  baneful 
influence,  even  the  human  species  has  degenerated 
in  that  quarter  of  the  globe. 

I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  have  often  doubted 
as  to  the  justness  of  this  opinion  ;  and,  though  I  do 
not  mean  to  deny  that  climate  has  an  influence  on 
man,  as  well  as  on  other  animals,  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  Montesquieu,  and  the  writers  who 
have  adopted  his  system,  have  attributed  by  far  too 
much  to  it. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  man  is  less  affected  by  the 
influence  of  climate  than  any  other  animal.  But,  of 
all  the  human  race,  an  American  savage  seems  to 
approach  the  nearest,  in  the  general  condition  of  his 
life,  to  the  brute  creation,  and,  of  consequence, 
ought  to  be  most  subject  to  the  power  of  climate. 
And  yet,  if  we  compare  an  Indian  with  an  European 
peasant,  or  manufacturer,  we  shall  be  apt  to  think, 
that  the  former,  considered  as  an  individual,  holds  a 
higher  rank  in  the  scale  of  being  than  the  latter. 

The  savage,  quitting  his  cabin,  goes  to  the  assem- 
bly of  his  tribe,  and  there  delivers  his  sentiments  on 
the  affairs  of  his  little  nation  with  a  spirit,  a  force, 
and  an  energy,  that  might  do  honour  to  an  Euro- 
pean orator.  Thence  he  goes  to  make  war  upon  his 
foes  ;  and,  in  the  field,  discovers  a  sagacity  in  his 
stratagems,  a  boldness  in  his  designs,  a  perseverance 
in  his  operations,  joined  with  a  patience  of  fatigue 
and  of  suffering,  that  have  long  been  objects  of  ad- 


90  THE    MIRROR. 

miration,  and  which  filled  the  inhabitants  of  the  old 
world,  when  they  first  beheld  them,  with  wonder  and 
astonishment.  How  superior  such  a  being  to  one 
occupied,  day  after  day,  in  turning  the  head  of  a 
pin,  or  forming  the  shape  of  a  button,  and  possess- 
ing not  one  idea  beyond  the  business  in  which  he  is 
immediately  employed  ? 

It  may  perhaps  be  objected,  that  no  fair  compari- 
son can  be  made  where  the  state  of  society  is  so  dif- 
ferent, the  necessary  effect  of  civilization  being  to 
introduce  a  distinction  of  ranks,  and  to  sink  the 
lower  orders  of  men  far  beneath  that  station  to  which 
by  nature  they  are  intitied.  But,  allowing  this  ob- 
servation to  be  just,  we  shall  find,  upon  comparing 
the  savage  of  America  with  the  savage  of  Europe, 
as  described  by  C?esar  and  Tacitus,  that  the  former 
is  at  least  equal  to  the  latter,  m  all  the  virtues  above 
enumerated. 

We  need  not,  however,  go  so  far  for  instances, 
to  show,  that  other  causes  act  more  powerfully  than 
climate,  in  forming  the  manners,  and  fixing  the 
characters  of  men.  London  and  Pans  are,  at  pre- 
sent, the  first  cities  in  Europe,  in  point  of  opulence, 
and  number  of  inhabitants  ;  and  in  no  other  part  of 
the  western  world  are  the  polite  and  elegant  arts  cul- 
tivated tc  such  advantage.  But  the  inhabitants  of 
those  cities  differ  essentially  in  manners,  sentiments, 
and  opinions  ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  they  breathe 
an  air  so  very  much  alike,  that  it  is  impossible  to  im- 
pute that  difference,  in  any  considerable  degree,  to 
difference  of  climate  ;  and,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be 
a  difficult  task  to  point  out  various  other  causes, 
which  may  enable  us  to  account  sufficiently  for  the 
distinction  between  the  national  character  of  the  two 
people. 

In  France,  the  power  of  the  great  nobles  was 
sooner  reduced  within  bounds  than  in  England  ;  and, 
in  proportion  as  their  power  fell,  that  of  the  mon* 


THE   MIRROR. 


arch  rose.  But,  no  sooner  was  the  authority  of  the 
crown  established  on  a  firm  basis,  than  the  court 
became  an  object  of  the  first  attention  and  import- 
ance. Every  man  of  genius,  of  distinction,  and  of 
rank,  hastened  thither,  in  hopes  of  meeting  with 
that  encouragement  which  his  talents  merited,  or 
of  being  able  to  display,  on  the  only  proper  theatre, 
those  advantages  which  he  possessed,  either  in 
reality,  or  in  his  own  imagination. 

Thus  Paris,  the  seat  of  the  court,  became  the 
centre  of  all  that  was  great  and  noble,  elegant  and 
polite.  The  manners  every  day  became  more  and 
more  polished  ;  and  no  man  who  did  not  possess  the 
talents  necessary  to  make  himself  agreeable,  could 
expect  to  rise  in  the  world,  however  great  his  abili- 
ties might  otherwise  be.  The  pleasures  of  society 
were  cultivated  with  care  and  assiduity ;  and  no- 
thing tended  more  to  promote  them  than  that  free  in- 
tercourse which  soon  came  to  take  place  between  the 
sexes.  All  men  studied  to  acquire  those  graces  and 
accomplishments  by  which  alone  they  could  hope  to 
recommend  themselves  to  the  ladies,  whose  influ- 
ence pervaded  every  branch  of  government,  and 
every  department  of  the  state. 

In  England  on  the  other  hand,  the  crown  gained 
little  by  the  fall  of  the  nobility.  The  high  preroga- 
tive exerted  by  the  princes  of  the  Tudor  race,  was 
of  short  duration.  A  third  order  soon  arose,  that, 
for  a  time,  trampled  alike  on  the  throne  and  the 
nobles.  And,  even  after  the  constitution  was  at 
length  happily  settled,  the  sovereign  remained  so 
limited  in  power  and  in  revenue,  that  his  court  never 
required  a  degree  of  influence  or  splendor  at  all 
comparable  to  that  of  the  French  monarch.  Lon- 
don had  become  so  great  and  opulent  by  its  exten- 
sive commerce,  that  the  residence  of  the  court  could 
add  little  to  that  consideration  in  which  it  was  al- 
ready held.  This  circumstance  had  a  powerful  ef- 
i  2 


9%  THE   MIRROR. 

feet  on  the  manners.  What  was  looked  upon  as  a 
virtue  at  Paris,  was  in  London  considered  as  a  vice. 
There  industry  and  frugality  were  so  essentially  re- 
quisite, that  every  elegant  accomplishment  was  re- 
jected as  incompatible  with  those  great  commercial 
virtues. 

The  dark  and  gloomy  spirit  of  fanaticism  which 
prevailed  so  universally  in  England  during  the  last 
century,  served  as  an  additional  barrier  against  the 
progress  of  politeness  and  elegance  of  manners. — 
Add  to  this,  that  the  English,  (owing  perhaps  to  the 
superior  degree  of  liberty  they  enjoy,  and  to  their 
high  independent  spirit,)  have  ever  been  more  at- 
tached to  a  country-life  than  any  civilized  people  in 
Europe ;  and  this  last  circumstance,  slight  as  it 
may  appear,  has,  perhaps,  had  as  powerful  an  in- 
fluence as  any  I  have  mentioned.  A  man  who  lives 
in  retirement,  may  be  sincere,  open,  honourable 
above  dissimulation,  and  free  from  disguise  ;  but  he 
never  can  possess  that  ease  of  behaviour,  and  that 
elegance  of  manners,  which  nothing  but  a  familiar 
acquaintance  with  the  world,  and  the  habit  of  ming- 
ling in  society,  and  of  conversing  with  persons  of 
different  ranks  and  different  characters,  can  bestow. 

Let  us  not,  however,  repine  at  the  superiority  ol  our 
neighbours  in  this  respect.  It  is,  perhaps,  impossible 
to  possess,  at  once,  the  useful  and  the  agreeable  qual- 
ities in  an  eminent  degree  ;  and,  if  ease  and  polite- 
ness be  only  attainable  at  the  expence  of  sincerity 
in  the  men,  and  chastity  in  the  women,  I  flatter  my- 
self, there  are  few  of  my  readers  who  would  not 
think  the  purchase  made  at  too  high  a  price. 

I  have,  of  late,  remarked,  with  regret,  an  affec- 
tation of  the  manners  of  France,  and  a  disposition 
in  some  of  the  higher  ranks  to  introduce  into  this 
island  that  species  of  gallantry  which  has  so  long 
prevailed  in  that  nation.  But,  happily,  neither  the 
habits,  the  dispositions,  the  genius  of  pur  people, 


THE    M1KKOR.  93 

nor  that  mixture  of  ranks  which  our  constitution  ne- 
cessarily produces,  will  admit  of  it.  In  France, 
they  contrive  to  throw  over  their  greatest  excesses  a 
veil  so  delicate  and  so  line,  as  in  some  measure  to 
hide  the  deformity  of  vice,  and  even  at  times  to  be- 
stow upon  it  the  semblance  of  virtue.  But,  with  us, 
less  delicate  and  less  refined,  vice  appears  in  its  na- 
tive colours,  without  concealment  and  without  dis- 
guise ;  and,  were  the  gallantry  of  Paris  transplanted 
into  this  soil,  it  would  soon  degenerate  into  gross 
debauchery.  At  present  my  countrywomen  are 
equally  respected  for  their  virtue,  as  admired  for 
their  beauty  ;  and  I  trust  it  will  be  long  before  they 
cease  to  be  so. 


No.  XIX.     TUESDAY,  MARCH  30. 

MY  friend  Mr.  Umphravilk's  early  retirement, 
and  long  residence  in  the  country,  have  given  him 
many  peculiarities,  to  which,  had  he  continued  long- 
er in  the  world,  and  had  a  free  intercourse  with 
mankind,  he  would  probably  not  have  been  subject. 
These  give  to  his  manner  an  apparent  hardness, 
which,  in  reality,  is  widely  different  from  his  natural 
disposition. 

As  he  passes  much  time  in  study  and  solitude, 
and  is  naturally  of  a  thoughtful  cast,  the  subjects  of 
which  he  reads,  and  the  opinions  which  he  forms, 
make  a  strong  and  deep  impression  on  his  mind  ; 
they  become,  as  it  were,  friends  and  companions 
from  whom  he  is  unwilling  to  be  separated.  Hence 
he  commonly  shows  a  disposition  to  take  a  lead  in, 
and  give  the  tone  to  conversation,  and  delivers  his 
opinions  too  much  in  the  manner  of  a  lecture.     And, 


94  THE   MIRROR. 

though  his  curiosity  and  love  of  information  concur 
with  that  politeness  which  he  is  ever  studious  to  ob- 
serve, to  make  him  listen  with  patience  and  atten- 
tion to  the  opinions  of  others  ;  yet,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, that  he  is  apt  to  deliver  his  own  with  an  un- 
common degree  of  warmth,  and  I  have  very  seldom 
found  him  disposed  to  surrender  them. 

I  find,  however,  nothing  disagreeable  in  this  pe- 
culiarity of  my  friend.  The  natural  strength  of  his 
understanding,  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  and 
that  degree  of  taste  which  he  has  derived  from  a 
strong  conception  of  the  sublime,  the  tender,  and 
the  bemittful,  assisted  by  an  extensive  acquaintance 
with  the  elegant  writers,  both  of  ancient  and  modern 
times,  render  his  conversation,  in  many  respects, 
both  instructive  and  entertaining  ;  and  that  singular- 
ity of  opinion,  which  is  the  natural  consequence  of 
his  want  of  opportunities  of  comparing  his  own 
ideas  with  those  of  others,  affords  me  an  additional 
pleasure.  But,  above  all,  I  am  delighted  with  the 
goodness  of  heart  which  breaks  forth  in  every  senti- 
ment he  delivers. 

Mr.  Umphraville's  sister,  who  is  often  present, 
and  sometimes  takes  a  part  in  those  conversations,  is 
of  a  character  at  once  amiable  and  respectable. 

In  her  earlier  days,  she  spent  much  of  her  time 
in  the  perusal  of  novels  and  romances  ;  but,  though 
she  still  retains  a  partiality  for  the  few  works  of  that 
kind  which  are  possessed  of  merit,  her  reading  is 
now  chiefly  confined  to  works  of  a  graver  cast. 

Miss  Umphraville,  though  she  has  not  so  much 
learning,  possesses,  perhaps,  no  less  ability  as  a  * 
woman  than  her  brother  does  as  a  man  ;  and,  having 
less  peculiarity  in  her  way  of  thinking,  has,  conse- 
quently, a  knowledge  better  fitted  for  common  life. 
It  is  pleasing  to  observe  how  Miss  Umphraville, 
while  she  always  appears  to  act  an  under  part,  and, 
sometimes,  indeed,  not  to  act  a   part   at  all,    yet 


THE   MIRROR.  9$ 

watches,  with  a  tender  concern,  over  the  singulari- 
ties of  her  brother's  disposition  ;  and,  without  be- 
traying the  smallest  consciousness  of  her  power, 
generally  contrives  to  direct  him  in  the  most  mate- 
rial parts  of  his  conduct. 

Mr.  Umphraville  is  the  best  master,  and  the  best 
landlord  that  ever  lived.  The  rents  of  his  estate  have 
undergone  scarce  any  alteration  since  he  came  to  the 
possession  of  it ;  and  his  tenants  too  are  nearly,  the 
same.  The  ancient  possessors  have  never  been  re- 
moved from  motives  of  interest,  or  without  some  very 
particular  reason ;  and  the  few  new  ones  he  has  cho- 
sen to  introduce  are,  for  the  most  part,  persons  who 
have  been  servants  in  his  family,  whose  fidelity  and 
attachment  he  has  rewarded  by  a  small  farm  at  a 
low  rent. 

I  have  had  many  a  pleasant  conversation,  about  sun- 
set in  a  summer  evening,  with  those  venerable  gray- 
headed  villagers.  Their  knowledge  of  country  af- 
fairs, the  sagacity  of  their  remarks,  and  the  manner 
acquired  by  a  residence  in  Mr.  Umphraville's  family, 
with  which  they  are  accustomed  to  deliver  them, 
have  afforded  me  much  entertainment. 

It  is  delightful  to  hear  them  run  out  in  praises  of 
their  landlord.  They  have  told  me  there  is  not  a 
person  in  his  neighbourhood  who  stands  in  need  of 
his  assistance,  who  has  not  felt  the  influence  of  his 
generosity  ;  which,  they  say,  endears  him  to  the 
whole  country.  Yet,  such  is  the  effect  of  that  re- 
served and  particular  manner  which  my  friend  has 
contracted,  that,  while  his  good  qualities  have  pro- 
cured him  great  esteem,  and  the  disinterestedness  of 
his  disposition,  with  the  opinion  entertained  of  his 
honour  and  integrity,  has  always  prevented  him  from 
falling  into  disputes  or  quarrels  with  his  neighbours, 
there  is  scarcely  one  of  them  with  whom  he  lives  on 
terms  of  familiarity. 

Mr.  Umphraville,  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  life. 


9$  THF    M1RR0H. 

had  an  attachment  to  an  amiable  young  lady.  Their 
situation  at  that  time  might  have  made  an  avowal  of 
his  passion  equally  fatal  to  both  ;  and,  though  it  was 
not  without  a  severe  struggle,  Mr.  Umphraville  had 
firmness  enough  to  suppress  the  declaration  of  an 
attachment  he  was  unable  to  subdue.  The  lady, 
some  time  after,  married  ;  since  that  period,  Mr. 
Umphraville  has  never  seen  her,  or  been  known  so 
much  as  once  to  mention  her  name  ;  but,  I  am  cre- 
dibly informed,  that,  by  his  interest,  her  eldest  son 
has  obtained  high  preferment  in  the  army.  The  only 
favour  which  Mr.  Umphraville  ever  asked  from  any 
great  man  was  for  this  young  gentleman ;  but  neither 
the  lady  herself,  nor  any  of  her  family,  know  by 
whose  influence  his  advancement  has  been  procured. 
Though  it  is  possible,  that,  if  Mr.  Umphraville 
had  married  at  an  early  period  of  life,  his  mind  even 
in  a  state  of  retirement,  would  have  retained  a  polish, 
and  escaped  many  of  those  peculiarities  it  has  now 
contracted  ;  yet,  I  own,  I  am  rather  inclined  to  be- 
lieve his  remaining  single  a  fortunate  circumstance. 
Nor  have  my  fair  readers  any  reason  to  be  offended 
at  the  remark  ;  great  talents,  even  in  a  generous  and 
benevolent  mind,  are  sometimes  attended  with  a  cer- 
tain want  of  pliability,  which  is  ill  suited  to  the  cor- 
dialities of  domestic  life.  A  man  of  such  a  dispo- 
sition as  Mr.  Umphraville  has  now  acquired,  might 
consider  the  delicacy,  the  vivacity,  and  the  fine  shades 
of  female  character  as  frivolous,  and  beneath  atten- 
tion ;  or,  at  least,  might  be  unable,  for  any  length 
of  time,  to  receive  pleasure  from  those  indulgences, 
which  minds  of  a  softer  mould  may  regard  as  the 
great  and  amiable  perfection  of  what  Mr.  Pope  calls 

"  The  last  best  work  of  Heaven." 

With  all  those  respectable  talents  which  Mr.  Um- 
phraville possesses,  with  all  that  generosity  of  sentt- 


THE    MIRROR.  97 

ment,  and  goodn.ss  of  heart  so  conspicuous  in  every 
thing  he  says  or  does,  which  so  strongly  endear  him 
to  his  friends,  I  am  apt  to  think,  that,  in  the  very 
intimate  connection  of  the  married  life,  a  woman  of 
delicacy  and  sensibility  might  often  feel  herself  hurt 
by  the  peculiarities  of  character  to  which  he  is  sub- 
ject. 

The  situation  of  a  wife  is,  in  this  respect,  very  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  a  sister.     Miss  Umphravilie's  ob- 
servation  of  her  brother's  peculiarities,  neither  les- 
sens  her  esteem,  nor  her  affection  for  him  ;  these 
peculiarities   serve  only   to  increase  her  attention  to 
him,  and  to  make  her  more  solicitous  to  prevent  their 
effects.     But  in  that  still  closer  connection  which  sub- 
sists between  husband  and   wife,  while  the  percep- 
tion  of  his   weakness  might  not  have  lessened  the 
wife's  affection,  it  might  have   given  her  a  distress 
which  a  sister  will  not  be  apt  to  feel :  a  sister  may 
observe  the  weaknesses  of  a  brother  without  a  blush, 
and  endeavour  to  correct  them  without  being  hurt  j 
a  wife  might  be  able  to  do  neither. 

These  views  which  I  have  given  of  Mr.  Umphra- 
ville,  and  his  family,  may,  perhaps,  appear  tedious 
to  my  readers.  In  giving  this  detail,  I  am  afraid  I 
have  not  sufficiently  remembered,  that,  as  they  have 
not  the  same  intimate  acquaintance  with  that  gentle- 
man which  I  have,  they  will  not  feel  the  same  inter- 
est in  what  relates  to  him. 
LS 


9t  THE   MIRROR. 

No.  XXI.     SATURDAY,  APRIL  3. 

Tantaene  animis  coelestibus  irae  >  Vj*g. 

WHILE  so  many  subjects  of  contention  occupy 
the  votaries  of  business  and  ambition,  and  prove  the 
source  of  discord,  envy,  jealousy,  and  rivalship, 
among  mankind,  one  would  be  apt  to  imagine,  that 
the  pursuits  and  employments  of  studious  and  literary 
men  would  be  carried  on  with  calmness,  good  tem- 
per, and  tranquillity.  The  philosophic  sage,  retired 
from  the  world,  who  has  truth  for  the  object  of  his 
inquiries,  might  be  willing,  it  were  natural  to  sup- 
pose, to  give  up  his  own  system,  when  he  found  it 
at  variance  with  truth,  and  would  never  quarrel  with 
another  for  adopting  a  different  one  ;  and  the  man 
of  elegance  and  taste,  who  has  literary  entertain- 
ment in  view,  would  not,  one  should  think,  find  fault 
with  the  like  amusements  of  other  men,  or  dispute, 
with  rancour  or  heat  upon  mere  matters  of  taste. 
But  the  fact  has  been  otherwise  :  the  disputes  among 
the  learned  have,  in  every  age,  been  carried  on  with 
the  utmost  virulence  ;  and  men,  pretending  to  taste, 
have  railed  at  each  other  with  unparalleled  abuse. 
Possibly  the  abstraction  from  the  world,  in  which 
the  philosopher  lives,  may  render  him  more  impa- 
tient of  contradiction  than  those  who  mix  oftener 
with  common  societies  ;  and  perhaps  that  fineness 
and  delicacy  of  perception  which  the  man  of  taste 
acquires,  may  be  more  liable  to  irritation  than  the 
coarser  feelings  of  minds  less  cultivated  and  im- 
proved. 

I  have  been  led  into  these  remarks  by  a  conver- 
sation at  which  I  happened  lately  to  be  present.  Last 
week,  having  left  with  my  editor  materials  for  my 
next  paper,  I  went  to  the  country  for  a  few  days,  to 
pay  a  visit  to  a  friend,  whose  real  name  I  shall  con- 


THE    MIRROR.  99 

ceal  under  that  of  Sylvester.  Sylvester,  when  a 
young  man,  had  retired  to  the  country,  and  having 
succeeded  to  a  paternal  estate,  which  was  sufficient 
for  all  his  wants,  had  lived  almost  constantly  at  home. 
His  time  was  spent  chiefly  in  study,  and  he  had  pub- 
lished some  performances  which  did  honour  to  his 
genius  and  his  knowledge.  During  all  this  time,, 
Sylvester  was  the  regular  correspondent  of  a  gentle- 
man whom  I  shall  here  call  Alcander,  whose  taste 
and  pursuits  were  in  many  respects  similar  to  his 
own.  Alcander,  though  he  was  not  an  author  like 
Sylvester,  had  from  nature  a  very  delicate  taste, 
which  had  been  much  improved  by  culture.  From 
a  variety  of  accidents,  the  two  friends  had  not  met 
for  a  great  number  of  years  ;  but,  while  I  was  at 
Sylvester's  house,  he  received  a  letter  from  Alcan- 
der, notifying  that  gentleman's  being  on  his  way  to 
visit  him  ;  and  soon  after  he  arrived  accordingly. 

It  is  not  easy  to  describe  the  pleasure  which  the  two 
friends  felt  at  meeting.  After  the  first  salutations, 
their  discourse  took  a  literary  turn.  I  was  delighted 
as  well  as  instructed  with  the  remarks  which  were 
made  upon  men  and  books,  by  two  persons  of  ex- 
tensive information  and  accomplished  taste  ;  and  the 
warmth  with  which  they  made  them,  added  a  relish 
to  their  observations.  The  conversation  lasted  till 
it  was  very  late,  when  my  host  and  his  friend  retired 
to  their  apartments,  much  pleased  with  each  other, 
and  in  full  expectation  of  additional  entertainment 
from  a  continuation  of  such  intercourse  at  the  return 
of  a  new  day. 

Next  morning  after  breakfast,  their  literary  dis- 
course was  resumed.  It  turned  on  a  comparison  of 
\^0  different  genius  and  merit  of  the  French  and 
English  authors.  Sylvester  said,  he  thought  there 
was  a  power  of  reasoning,  a  strength  of  genius,  and 
a  depth  of  reflection,  in  the  English  authors,  of 
which  the  French,  in  general,  were  incapable  ;  and 

vol.  i.  K 


100  THE    MIRROR. 

that,  in  his  opinion,  the  preference  lay  greatly  on 
the  side  of  the  writers  of  our  own  country.  Alcan- 
der  begged  leave  to  differ  from  him  ;  he  admitted, 
there  was  an  appearance  of  depth  in  many  of  the 
English  authors,  but  he  said  it  was  false  and  hollow. 
He  maintained,  that  the  seeking  after  something  pro- 
found, had  led  into  many  useless  metaphysical  dis- 
quisitions, in  which  the  writer  had  no  real  merit,  nor 
could  the  reader  find  any  real  advantage.  But  the 
French  authors,  he  said,  excelled  in  remarks  on  life 
and  character,  which,  as  they  were  founded  on  ac- 
tual observation,  might  be  attended  with  much  utility, 
and,  as  they  were  expressed  in  the  liveliest  manner, 
could  not  fail  to  give  the  highest  entertainment.  Al- 
cander,  in  the  course  of  his  argument,  endeavoured 
to  illustrate  it  by  a  comparison  of  some  of  the  most 
distinguished  authors  of  both  countries.  Sylvester, 
finding  those  writers,  whom  he  had  studied  with  at- 
tention, and  imitated  with  success,  so  warmly  attack- 
ed, replied  with  some  heat,  as  if  he  thought  it  tend- 
ed to  the  disparagement  of  his  own  compositions. 
Sylvester  said  something  about  French  frivolity  ;  and 
Alcander  replied  with  a  sarcasm  on  metaphysical  ab- 
surdity. 

Finding  the  conversation  take  this  unlucky  turn,  I 
endeavoured  to  change  the  subject ;  and  from  the 
comparison  of  the  English  and  French  authors,  took 
occasion  to  mention  that  period  of  English  literature, 
which  has  been  frequently  termed  the  Augustan  age 
of  England,  when  that  constellation  of  wits  appeared 
which  illuminated  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne. 

But  this  subject  of  conversation  was  as  unfortunate 
as  the  former.  Sylvester  is  a  professed  admirer  of 
Swift,  to  whom  his  attachment  is  perhaps  heightened 
by  a  little  toryism  in  his  political  principles.  Alcan- 
der is  a  keen  whig,  and  as  great  an  admirer  of  Addi- 
son. As  the  conversation  had  grown  rather  warm  on 
a  general  comparison  of  the  authors  of  one  country 


THE    MIRROR.  101 

with  those  of  another,  so  its  warmth  was  much  grea- 
ter when  the  comparison  was  made  of  two  particular 
favourite  authors.  Sylvester  talked  of  the  strength, 
the  dignity,  the  forcible  observation,  and  the  wit  of 
Swifc :  Aicander  of  the  ease,  the  gracefulness,  the 
native  and  agreeable  humour  of  Addison.  From  re- 
marks upon  their  writings,  they  went  to  their  charac- 
ters. Sylvester  spoke  in  praise  of  openness  and  spi- 
rit, and  threw  out  something  against  envy,  jealousy, 
and  meanness.  Aicander  inveighed  against  pride  and 
ill-nature,  and  pronounced  an  euiogium  on  elegance, 
philanthropy,  and  gentleness  of  manners.  Sylvester 
spoke  as  if  he  thought  no  man  of  a  candid  and  gene- 
rous mind  could  be  a  lover  of  Addison  ;  Aicander, 
as  if  none  but  a  severe  and  ill-tempered  one  could 
endure  Sv/if. 

The  spirits  of  the  two  friends  were  now  heated  to 
a  violent  degree,  and  not  a  little  rankled  at  each 
other.  I  endeavoured  again  to  give  the  discourse  a 
new  direction,  and,  as  if  accidentally,  introduced 
something  about  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris.  1  knew 
both  gentlemen  were  masters  of  the  dispute  upon 
that  subject,  which  has  so  much  divided  the  learned, 
and  thought  a  dry  question  of  this  sort  could  not  pos- 
sibly interest  them  too  much.  But  in  this  I  was  mis- 
taken. Sylvester  and  x\lcander  took  different  sides 
upon  this  subject,  as  they  had  done  upon  the  former, 
and  supported  their  opinions  with  no  less  warmth 
than  before.  Each  of  them  catched  fire  from  every 
thing  his  opponent  said,  as  if  neither  could  think 
well  of  the  judgment  of  that  man  who  was  of  an 
opinion  different  from  his  own. 

With  this  last  debate  the  conversation  ended.  At 
our  meeting  next  day,  a  formal  politeness  took  place 
between  Sylvester  and  Aicander,  very  different  from 
that  openness  and  cordiality  of  manner  which  they 
showed  at  their  first  meeting.  The  last,  soon  after, 
took  his  departure  ;  and,   I  believe,   neither  of  them 


102  THE  MIRROR. 

felt  that  respect  for  each  other's  understanding,  nor 
that  warmth  of  affection,  which  they  entertained  be- 
fore this  visit. 

Alas  !  the  two  friends  did  not  consider  that  it  was 
their  being  too  much  alike,  their  being  engaged  in 
similar  employments,  that  changed  their  friendship 
into  this  coldness.  Both  attached  to  the  same  pur- 
suits, and  accustomed  to  indulge  them  chiefly  in  se- 
clusion and  solitude,  they  had  been  too  little  accus- 
tomed to  bear  contradiction.  This  impatience  of  con- 
tradiction had  not  been  corrected  in  either  by  attention 
to  the  feelings  or  views  of  others  ;  snd  the  warmth 
which  each  felt  in  supporting  his  own  particular 
opinion,  prevented  him  from  giving  the  proper  in- 
dulgence to  a  diversity  of  ©pinion  in  the  other. 
'   S 


No.  XXI.     TUESDAY,  APRIL  6. 

THIS  day's  paper  I  devote  to  correspondents. 
The  first  of  the  two  letters  it  contains  was  left  one 
night  at  the  house  of  my  editor,  by  a  slender  person 
in  a  slouched  hat  and  a  wide  surtout. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror* 
Sir, 
I  AM  a  young  man,  a  lover  of  literature,  and  have 
sometimes  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  performan- 
ces of  my  own  in  print,  several  of  my  essays  having 
been  favourably  received  by  the  publishers  of  the  ma- 
gazines. I  have  a  great  desire  of  becoming  a  corres- 
pondent of  the  Mirror  ;  but  one  circumstance  a  good 
deal  embarrasses  me  ;  that  is,  the  fear  of  detection 
m  conveying   my  letters.     This  has  frequently  pre-; 


THE    MIRROR.  103 

vented  me  from  sending  an  essay  to  other  periodical 
publications,  till  the  time  proper  for  its  appearance 
was  past ;  and  so  I  have  lost  it  altogether*,  I  have 
often  set  out  with  my  paper  in  my  pocket,  passed 
and  repassed  the  cross,  looked  at  the  faces  of  dif- 
ferent chairmen  and  porters*  been  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  leading  up  to  the  penny-post  office  ;  yet,  from 
the  effects  of  an  insuperable  bashfulness,  returned 
home  without  being  delivered  of  my  burden. 

During  the  publication  of  the  Edinburgh  Maga- 
gine  and  Review,  this  inconvenience  was  remedied, 
by  the  placing  of  a  box  near  the  printing-house,  into 
which  any  letter  or  parcel  might  be  dropped  with  very 
little  chance  of  discovery.  I  would  recommend  to 
you,  Sir,  a  similar  contrivance.  We  see  on  the 
eves  of  some  of  our  public  buildings  the  mouths  of 
certain  animals  cut  out  in  stone,  through  which  the 
water  from  the  roof  descends  to  some  convenient  part 
of  the  street  beneath.  One  of  these,  reversed  so  as 
to  gape  upwards  instead  of  downwards,  would  exact- 
ly answer  the  purpose  waited  ;  and  besides  tending 
to  the  ease  and  convenience  of  your  correspondents, 
would  have  a  pretty  allusion  to  the  Lion's  mouth  in 
the  Guardian.  If  I  might  venture  to  point  out  a 
place  for  it,  I  would  suggest  that  narrow  passage  at 
the  back  of  Mr.  Creech's  shop,  vulgarly  called  the 
Crames,  as  both  centrical  and  secret. 

I  am,  Sir,   See. 

Y.  Z. 

Beside  a  general  desire  of  obliging  all  my  readers 
and  correspondents,  I  have  really  a  fellow-feeling  for 
this  young  gentleman's  modesty,  having  experienced 
the  very  embarrassment  he  describes  in  bringing 
forth  to  the  world  the  fruits  of  my  first  boyish  com- 
merce with  the  muses.  I,  therefore,  immediately 
communicated  his  proposal  to  Mr.  Creech,  who  sent 
out  one  of  his  young  men  to  examine  the  spot  pro- 
k  2 


104  THE    MIRROR. 

posed  l»y  r\Ir.  Z.  for  the  station  of  this  literary  con- 
ductor. The  lad  who  is  a  reader  of  plays,  reported 
to  us,  or>  has  return,  that  «  There  is  a  kind  of  local 
"  sympathy,"  which  makes  it  not  altogether  advise- 
able  to  erect  such  a  machine  in  that  place  at  present. 
The  hint,  however,  shall  be  duly  attended  to,  when 
the  magistrates  (who,  1  am  told,  have,  for  some  time, 
had  such  a  scheme  in  view)  set  about  putting  the  New 
Church,  and  its  environs,  on  a  more  respectable 
footing. 

The  second  letter  was  brought  by  a  spruce  foot- 
man, who,  upon  being  asked  whence  he  came,  re- 
plied, from  Mrs.  Meekly's. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 

THE  world  has,  at  different  periods,  been  afflicted 
with  diseases  peculiar  to  the  times  in  which* they 
appeared,  and  the  faculty  have,  with  great  ingenuity, 
contrived  certain  generic  names  by  which  they  might 
be  distinguished,  it  beingp  quality  of  great  use  and 
comfort  in  a  physician  to  be  able  to  tell  precisely  of 
what  disorder  his  patient  is  likely  to  die.  The  ner- 
vous seems  to  be  the  ailment  in  greatest  vogue  at 
present,  a  species  of  disease,  which  I  afn  apt  to  con- 
sider as  not  the  less  terrible  for  being  less  mortal  than 
many  others.  I  speak  not  from  personal  experience, 
Mr.  Mirror ;  my  own  constitution,  thank  God  !  is 
pretty  robust ;  but  I  have  the  misfortune  to  be  afflicted 
with  a  nervous  wife. 

It  is  impossible  to  enumerate  a  twentieth  part  of 
the  symptoms  of  this  lamentable  disorder,  or  of  the 
circumstances  by  which  its  paroxysms  are  excited  or 
increased.  Its  dependence  on  the  natural  phenome- 
na of  the  wind  and  weather,  on  the  temperature  of 
the  air,  whether  hot  or  cold,  moist  or  dry,  might  be 
accounted  for ;  and  my  wife  would  then  be  in  no  worse 
situation  than  the  lady  in  a  red  cap  and  green  jacket, 


THE   MIRROR.  105 

-whose  figure  I  have  seen  in  the  little  Dutch  barome- 
ters known  by  the  name  of  baby-houses.  But,  beside 
feeling  the  impression  of  those  particulars,  her  disor- 
der is  brought  on  by  incidents  still  more  frequent, 
and  less  easy  to  be  foreseen,  than  even  the  occasional 
changes  in  our  atmosphere.  A  person  running  hasti- 
ly up  cr  down  stairs,  shutting  a  door  roughly,  placing 
the  tongs  on  the  leftside  of  the  grate,  and  the  poker 
on  the  right,  setting  the  China  figures  onthe  mantle- 
piece  a  little  awry,  or  allowing  the  tassel  of  the  bell- 
string  to  swing  but  for  a  moment ;  any  of  those  little 
accidents  has  an  immediate  and  irresistible  effect  on 
the  nervous  system  of  my  wife,  and  produces  symp- 
toms, sometimes  of  languor,  sometimes  of  irritation, 
which  I  her  husband,  my  three  children  by  a  former 
marriage,  and  the  other  members  of  our  family,  equal- 
ly feel  and  regret.  The  above  causes  of  her  distem- 
per, a  very  attentive  and  diligent  discharge  of  our  se- 
veral duties  might  possibly  prevent ;  but  even  our  in- 
voluntary actions  are  apt  to  produce  effects  of  a  similar 
or  more  violent  nature.  It  was  but  the  other  day  she 
told  my  boy  Dick  he  eat  his  pudding  so  voraciously, 
as  almost  to  make  her  faint,  and  remonstrated  against 
my  sneezing  in  the  manner  I  did,  which,  she  said, 
tore  her  poor  nerves  in  pieces. 

One  thing  I  have  observed  peculiar  to  this  disor- 
der, which  jLhose  conversant  with  the  nature  of  sym- 
pathetic affections  may  be  able  to  explain.  It  is  not 
always  produced  by  exactly  similar  causes,  if  such 
causes  exist  in  dissimilar  situations.  I  have  known 
my  wife  squeezed  for  hours   in  a  side-box,  dance  a 

whole  night  at  a  ball,  have  my  Lord talking  as 

fast  and  as  loud  to  her  as  was  possible  there,  and  her 
nose  assailed  by  the  stink  of  a  whole  row  of  flam- 
beaux, at  going  in  and  coming  out,  without  feeling 
her  nerves  in  the  smallest  degree  affected  ;  yet,  the 
very  day  after,  at  home,  she  could  not  bear  my  chair, 
or  the  chair  of  one  of  the  children,  to  come  within 


106  THE    MIRROR. 

several  feet  of  hers  ;  walking  up  stairs  perfectly 
overcame  her  ;  none  of  us  durst  talk  but  in  whispers  ; 
and  the  smell  of  my  buttered  roll  made  her  sick  to 
death. 

As  I  reckon  your  paper  a  paper  of  record  for  singu- 
lar cases,  and  intolerable  grievances  of  every  sort,  I 
send  the  above  for  your  insertion,  stating  it  accord- 
ing to  its  nature,  in  terms  as  physically  descriptive 
as  my  little  acquaintance  with  the  healing  art  can 
supply. 

I  am,  &c. 

Joseph  Meekly. 

This  correspondent,  as  far  as  his  wife's  case  falls 
within  the  department  of  the  physician,  I  must  refer 
to  my  very  teamed  friends  Doctors  Cullen  and  Monro, 
who.  upon  being  properly  attended,  will  give  him,  I 
am  persuaded,  as  sound  advice  as  it  is  in  the  power  of 
medical  skUl  to  suggest.  In  point  of  prudence,  to 
which  only  my  pre^ciiption  k  apply,  I  can  advise  no- 
t  dug  so  proper  for  Mr.  Meekly  himself,  a*  to  imitate 
tae  conduct  of  the  husband  of  that  little  lady  he  de- 
s  .riber-,  the  mistress  of  the  Dutch  baby-house  ;  be- 
tween whom  and  his  wife,  though  there  subsists  a 
very  intimate  connection,  there  is  yet  a  contract  of  a 
particular  kind  :  whenever  the  gentleman  is  at  home, 
the  lady  is  abroad,  and  vice  versa.  In  their  house, 
indeed,  J  do  not  observe  any  children  ;  from  which 
I  conclude,  that  they  have  all  been  sent  to  the  acade- 
my and  the  boarding-school. 

I 


THE   MIRROR.  107 

No.  XXII.     SATURDAY,  APRIL  10. 

Sincerum  capimus  vas  incrustare.  Horat. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Slr, 

YOUR  Mirror,  it  seems,  possesses  uncommon  vir- 
tues, and  you  generously  hold  it  out  to  the  public, 
that  we  may  dress  our  characters  at  it.  I  trust  it  is, 
at  least,  a  faithful  glass,  aud  will  give  a  just  repre- 
sentation of  those  lurking  imperfections  or  excellen- 
cies which  we  distinguish  with  difficulty,  ©r  sometimes 
altogether  overlook.  I  struggle,  therefore,  to  get 
forward  in  the  crowd,  and  to  set  before  your  moral 
Mirror  a  personage  who  has  long  embarrassed  me. 

The  observation  of  character,  when  I  first  looked 
beyond  a  college  for  happiness,  formed  not  only  my 
amusement,  but,  for  some  years,  my  favourite  study. 
I  had  been  so  fortunate  as  early  to  imbibe  strict  no- 
tions of  morality  and  religion,  and  to  arrive  at  man- 
hood in  perfect  ignorance  of  vicious  pleasure.  My 
heart  was,  therefore,  led  to  place  its  hopes  of  happi- 
ness in  love  and  friendship  ;  but  books  had  taught  me 
to  dread  misplacing  my  affections.  On  this  account, 
anxious  to  gratify  the  "  soif  d'aimer"  that  engrossed 
me.  I  bent  the  whole  of  my  little  talents  to  discern  the 
characters  of  my  acquaintance  ;  and,  blending  senti- 
ments of  religion  with  high  notions  of  moral  excel- 
lence, and  the  reiined  intercourse  of  cultivated  minds, 
I  fondly  hoped,  that,  where  I  once  formed  an  attach- 
ment, it  would  last  for  ever. 

In  this  state  of  mind  I  became  acquainted  with 
Cleone.  She  was  young  and  beautiful,  but  without 
that  dimpling  play  of  features  which  indicates,  in 
some  women,  a  mind  of  extreme  sensibility.  Her 
eye  bespoke  good  sense,  and  was  sometimes  lighted 
up  with  vivacity,  but  never  sparkled  with  the  keen- 


108  THE    MIRROR. 

ness  of  unrestrained  joy,  nor  melted  with  the  suffu- 
sion of  indulged  sorrow.  Her  manner  and  address 
had  no  tendency  to  familiarity  ;  it  was  genteel  rather 
than  graceful.  Her  voice  in  conversation  was  suited 
to  her  manner ;  it  possessed  those  level  tones  which 
ne^er  offend,  but  seldom  give  pleasure,  and  seldomer 
emotion. 

Her  conversation  was  plain  and  sensible.  Never 
attempting  wit  or  humour,  she  contented  herself  with 
expressing,  in  correct  and  unaffected  language,  just 
sentiments  on  manners,  and  on  works  of  taste  :  and 
the  genius  she  displayed  in  compositions  becoming 
her  sex,  and  the  propriety  of  her  own  conduct,  did 
honour  to  her  criticisms.  She  sung  with  uncommon 
excellence.  Her  voice  seemed  to  unfold  itself  in 
singing,  to  suit  every  musical  expression,  and  to  as- 
burne  every  tone  of  passion  she  wished  to  utter.  I 
never  felt  the  power  of  simple  melody  in  agitating, 
affecting,  and  pleasing,  more  strongly  than  from  her 
performance. 

In  company  she  was  attentive,  "  prevenante,"  but 
not  insinuating  ;  and,  though  she  seemed  to  court 
the  society  of  men  of  letters  and  taste,  and  to  profess 
having  intimate  fiiendships  with  some  individuals 
among  them,  I  never  could  perceive  that  she  was 
subject  to  the  common  weakness  of  making  a  parade 
of  this  kind  of  intercourse. 

Most  people  would  suppose  that  I  had  found  in 
Cleone  the  friend  I  was  seeking  ;  for  both  of  us  knew 
we  could  never  be  nearer  than  friends  to  each  other, 
and  she.  treated  me  with  some  distinction.  I  found 
it,  however,  impossible  to  know  her  so  well  as  to  place 
in  her  the  complete  confidence  essential  to  friend- 
ship. The  minutest  attention  to  every  circumstance 
in  her  appearance  and  behaviour,  and  studying  her 
for  years  in  all  the  little  varieties  of  situation  that  an 
intimate  acquaintance  gave  access  to  observe,  proved 
unequal  to   discover  with  certainty  the  genuine  cha- 


THE    MIRROR.  103 

racter  of  her  disposition  or  temper.  No  caprice  be- 
trayed her:  no  predominant  shade  could  be  marked 
in  her  tears,  in  her  laugh,  or  in  her  smiles.  Some- 
times, however,  I  have  thought  she  breathed  a  soft- 
ness of  soul  that  tempted  me  to  believe  her  gene- 
rous ;  but,  when  I  considered  a  little,  the  inner  reces- 
ses of  her  heart  appeared  still  shut  against  the 
observer ;  and  I  well  knew,  that  even  poignant  sen- 
sibility is  not  inconsistent  with  predominant  selfish- 
ness. 

When  contemplating  Cleone,  I  have  often  thought 
of  that  beautiful  trait  in  the  description  of  Petrarch's 
Laura:  "  II  lampeggiar  dell'  angelico  riso."*  These 
flashes  of  affection  breaking  from  the  soul,  alone 
display  the  truth,  generosity,  and  tenderness,  that 
deserve  a  friend.  These  gleams  from  the  heart  show 
us  all  its  intricacies,  its  weakness  and  its  vigour,  and 
expose  it  naked  and  undisguised  to  the  spectator. 
A  single  minute  will,  in  this  way,  give  more  know- 
ledge of  a  character,  and  justly,  therefore,  attract 
more  confidence,  than  twenty  years  experience  of  re- 
finement of  taste  and  propriety  of  conduct. 

I  am  willing  to  believe  it  was  some  error  in  edu- 
tion  which  had  wrapt  up  Cleone's  character  in  so 
much  obscurity,  and  not  any  natural  defect  that  ren- 
dered it  prudent  to  be  invisible.  If  there  is  an  error 
of  this  kind,  I  hope  your  Mirror  will  expose  it,  and 
prevent  it  from  robbing  superior  minds  of  their  best 
reward — the  confidence  of  each  other. 

In  the  present  state  of  society,  we  have  few  op- 
portunities of  exhibiting  our  true  characters  by  our 
actions  ;  and  the  habits  of  the  world  soon  throw  upon 
our  manners  a  veil  that  is  impenetrable  to  others, 
and  nearly  so  to  ourselves.  Hence  the  only  period 
when  we  can  form  friendships  is  a  few  years  in  youth ; 
for  there  is  a  reserve  in  the  deportment,  and  a  cer- 

*  The  lightning  of  her  angel  smile. 


1  10  THE   MIRROR. 

tain  selfishness  in  the  occupations  of  manhood,  un- 
favourable to  the  forming  of  warm  attachments.  It 
is,  therefore,  fatal  to  the  very  source  of  friendship, 
if,  when  yet  children,  we  are  to  be  prematurely  be- 
daubed with  the  varnish  of  the  world.  And  yet,  I 
fear,  this  is  the  necessary  effect  of  modern  educa- 
tion. 

In  place  of  cherishing  the  amiable  simplicity  and 
frankness  of  children,  every  emanation  of  the  heart 
is  checked  by  the  constant  restraints,  dissimulation, 
and  frivolous  forms  of  fashionable  address,  with  which 
we  harrass  them.  Hence  they  are  nearly  the  same 
at  fourteen  as  at  five  and  twenty,  when,  after  a  youth 
spent  in  joyless  dissipation,  they  enter  life,  slaves  to 
selfish  appetites  and  reigning  prejudices,  and  devoid 
of  that  virtuous  energy  of  soul  which  strong  attach- 
ments, and  the  habits  of  deserved  confidence,  inspire. 
Even  those  who,  like  Cleone,  possess  minds  supe- 
rior to  the  common  mould,  though  they  cultivate 
their  talents  with  success,  and,  in  some  measure,  edu- 
cate themselves  anew,  find  it  impossible  to  get  rid 
entirely  of  that  artificial  manner,  and  those  habits 
of  restraint,  with  which  they  had  been  so  early  im- 
bued. 

Thus,  like  French  taylors  and  dancing-masters, 
pretending  to  add  grace  and  ornament  to  nature,  we 
constrain,  distort,  and  incumber  her  ;  whereas  the 
education  of  a  polished  age  should,  like  the  drapery 
of  a  fine  statue  or  portrait,  confer  decency,  propriety, 
and  elegance,  and  gracefully  veil,  but  by  no  means 
conceal,  the  beautiful  forms  of  nature. 

LiEHUS. 


THE    MIRROR.  1  1  I 


No.  XXIII.     TUESDAY,  APRIL   13. 


It  isti 


Errori  nomen  virtus  posuisset  honestum.  Hon. 

I  WAS  lately  applied  to  by  a  friend,  in  behalf  of 
a  gentleman,  who,  he  said,  had  been  unfortunate  in 
life,  to  whom  he  was  desirous  of  doing  a  particular 
piece  of  service,  in  which  he  thought  my  assistance 
might  be  useful :  "  Poor  fellow  ?"  said  he,  "  I  wish 
"  to  serve  him,  because  I  always  knew  him,  dissi- 
"  pated  and  thoughtless  as  he  was,  to  be  a  good- 
"  hearted  man,  guilty  of  many  imprudent  things, 
"  indeed,  but  without  meaning  any  harm  I  In  short, 
"  no  one's  enemy  but  his  own." 

I  afterwards  learned  more  particularly  the  circum- 
stances of  this  gentleman's  life  and  conversation, 
which  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  laying  before  my 
readers,  in  order  to  show  them  what  they  are  to 
understand  by  the  terms  used  by  my  friend,  terms 
which  I  believe,  he  was  no  wise  singular  in  using. 

The  person  whose  interests  he  espoused,  was  heir 
to  a  very  considerable  estate.  He  lost  his  father 
when  an  infant  ;  and  being,  unfortunately,  an  only 
son,  was  too  much  the  darling  of  his  mother  ever  to 
be  contradicted.  During  his  childhood  he  was  not 
suffered  to  play  with  his  equals,  because  he  was  to 
be  the  king  of  all  sports,  and  to  be  allowed  a  sove- 
reign and  arbitrary  dominion  over  the  persons  and 
properties  of  his  play-fellows.  At  school  he  was  at- 
tended by  a  servant,  who  helped  him  to  thrash  boys 
who  were  too  strong  to  be  thrashed  by  himself,  and 
had  a  tutor  at  home,  who  translated  the  Latin  which 
was  too  hard  for  him  to  translate.  At  college  he  be- 
gan to  assume  the  man,  by  treating  at  taverns, 
making  parties  to  the  country,  filling  his  tutor  drunk, 
and  hiring  blackguards  to  break  the  windows  of  the 

VOL.   I.  L 


!  12  THE    MIRIIOR. 

professor  with  whom  he  was  boarded.  He  took  in 
succession  the  degrees  of  a  wag,  a  pickle,  and  a  lad 
of  mettle.  For  a  while,  having  made  an  elopement 
with  his  mother's  maid,  and  lathered  three  children 
of  other  people,  he  got  the  appellation  of  a  dissipated 
dog  :  but,  at  last,  betaking  himself  entirely  to  the 
bottle,  and  growing  red  faced  and  fat,  he  obtained  the 
denomination  of  an  honest  fellow  ;  which  title  he 
continued  to  enjoy  as  long  as  he  had  money  to  pay, 
or,  indeed,  much  longer,  while  he  had  credit  to  score, 
for  his  reckoning. 

During  this  last  part  of  his  progress,  he  married 
a  poor  girl,  whom  her  father,  from  a  mistaken  idea 
of  his  fortune,  forced  to  sacrifice  herself  to  his  wishes. 
After  a  very  short  space,  he  grew  too  indifferent  a- 
bout  her  to  use  her  ill,  and  broke  her  heart  with  the 
best-natured  neglect  in  the  world.  Of  two  children 
whom  he  had  by  her,  one  died  at  nurse  scon  after 
the  death  of  its  mother ;  the  eldest,  a  boy  of  spirit 
like  his  father,  after  twice  running  away  from  school, 
was  at  last  sent  a-board  a  Guinea-man,  and  was 
knocked  on  the  head  by  a  sailor,  in  a  quarrel  about  a 
negro  wench,  on  the  coast  of  Africa. 

Generosity,  however,  was  a  part  of  his  character 
which  he  never  forfeited.  Beside  lending  money 
genteelly  to  many  worthless  companions,  and  becom- 
ing surety  for  every  men  who  asked  him,  he  did  seme 
truly  charitable  actions  to  very  deserving  objects. 
These  were  told  to  his  honour  ;  and  people  who  had 
met  with  refusals  from  more  considerate-  men,  spoke 
of  such  actions  as  the  genuine  test  of  feeling  and  hu- 
manity. They  misinterpreted  scripture  for  indul- 
gence to  his  errors  on  account  of  his  charity,  and  ex- 
tolled the  g;ocdness  cf  his  heart  in  every  company 
where  he  was  mentioned.  Even  while  his  mother, 
during  her  last  illness,  was  obliged  to  accept  of  money 
from  her  physician,  because  she  could  not  obtain 
payment  of  her  jointure,  and  while,  after  her  decease, 


THE     MIRROR.  113 

his  two  sisters  were  dunning  him  every  clay,  without 
effect,  for  the  small  annuity  1  -ft  them  by  their  father, 
he  was  called  a  good-hearted  man  by  three-fourths 
of  his  acquaintance  ;  and  when,  after  having  pawned 
their  cloaths,  rather  than  distress  him,  those  sisters 
commenced  a  law-suit  to  force  him  to  do  them  jus- 
tice, the  same  impartial  judges  pronounced  them 
hard-hearted  and  unnatural ;  nay,  the  story  is  still 
told  to  their  prejudice,  though  they  now  prevent  their 
brother  from  starving,  out  of  the  profits  of  a  little 
shop  which  they  were  then  obliged  to  set  up  for  their 
support. 

The  abuse  of  the  terms  used  by  my  friend,  in  re- 
gard to  the  character  of  this  unfortunate  man,  would 
be  sufficiently  striking  from  the  relation  I  have  given, 
without  the  necessity  c.f  my  offering  any  comment 
on  it.  Yet  the  misapplication  of  them  is  a  thousand 
times  repeated  by  people  who  have  known  and  felt 
instances  equally  edaring  of  such  injustice.  It  may 
seem  invidious  to  lessen  the  praises  of  any  praise- 
worthy quality  ;  but  it  is  essential  to  the  interests  of 
virtue,  that  insensibility  should  not  be  allowed  to  as- 
sume the  title  of  good-nature,  nor  profusion  to  usurp 
the  honours  of  genercsiiy. 

The  effect  of  such  misplaced  and  ill-founded  in- 
dulgence is  hurtful  in  a  double  degree.  It  encourages 
the  evil  which  it  forbears  to  censure,  and  discourages 
the  good  qualities  which  are  found  in  men  of  decent 
and  sober  characters.  If  we  look  into  the  private 
histories  of  unfortunate  families,  we  will  nnd  most  of 
their  calamities  to  have  proceeded  from  a  neglect  of 
the  useful  duties  of  sobriety,  economy,  and  attention 
to  domestic  concerns,  which,  though  they  shine  not 
in  the  eye  of  the  wort!,  nay,  are  often  subjected  to 
its  obloquy,  are  yet  the  surest  guardians  of  virtue,  of 
honour,  and  of  independence. 

"  Be  just  before  you  are  generous,"  is  a  good  old 
proverb,  which  the  prodigate  hero  of  a  much  admired 


1  14  TH-K    MIR&OX.  ' 

coined)  is  made  to  ridicule,  in  a  well-turned,  and 
.even  a  sentimental  period.  But  what  right  have 
those  squanderers  of  their  own  and  other  men's  for- 
tunes to  assume  the  merit  of  generosity  ?  Is  parting 
with  that  money,  which  they  value  so  little,  genero- 
sity ?  Let  them  restrain  their  dissipation,  their  riot, 
their  debauchery,  when  they  are  told  that  these  bring 
ruin  on  the  persons  and  families  of  the  honest  and 
the  industrious  ;  let  them  sacrifice  one  pleasure  to 
humanity,  and  then  tell  us  of  their  generosity  and 
their  feeling.  A  transient  instance,  in  which  the  pro- 
digal relieved  want  with  his  purse,  or  the  thoughtless 
debauchee  promoted  merit  by  his  interest,  no  more 
deserves  the  appellation  of  generosity,  than  the  rash- 
ness of  a  drunkard  is  intitled  to  the  praises  of  valour, 
or  the  freaks  of  a  madman  to  the  laurels  of  genius. 
In  the  character  of  a  man  considered  as  a  being  of 
any  respect  at  all,  we  immediately  see  a  relation  to 
his  friends,  his  neighbours,  and  his  country.  Hi* 
duties  only  confer  real  dignity,  and,  what  may  not 
be  so  easily  allowed,  but  is  equally  true,  can  bestow 
real  pleasure.  I  know  not  an  animal  more  insignifi- 
cant, or  less  happy,  than  a  man  without  any  ties  of 
affection,  or  any  exercise  of  duty..  He  must  be  very 
forlorn,  or  very  despicable,  indeed,  to  whom  it  is 
possible  to  apply  the  phrase  used  by  my  friend,  in 
characterizing  the  person  whose  story  I  have  related 
above,  and  to  say,  that  he  is  no  cnei  enemy  but  his 
owr. 

V 


THli    MIRROR.  115 


No.  XXIV.     SATURDAY,  APRIL  17. 

Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse  pcc\nata  ;  dulciasunto.         Hon, 

NATURE  is  for  ever  before  us.  We  can,  as  of- 
ten as  we  please,  contemplate  the  variety  of  her  pro- 
ductions, and  feel  the  power  of  her  beauty.  We  may 
feast  our  imaginations  with  the  verdure  of  waving 
groves,  the  diversified  colours  of  an  evening  sky,  or 
the  windings  of  a  limpid  river.  We  may  dwell  with 
rapture  on  those  more  sublime  exhibitions  of  nature, 
the  raging  tempest,  the  billowy  deep,  or  the  stupen- 
dous precipice,  that  lift  the  soul  with  delightful  a- 
mazement,  and  seem  almost  to  suspend  her  exertions. 
These  beautiful  and  vast  appearances  are  so  capable 
of  affording  pleasure,  that  they  become  favourite  sub- 
jects with  the  poet  and  the  painter  ;  they  charm  us 
in  description,  or  they  glow  upon  canvass.  Indeed, 
the  imitations  of  eminent  artists  have  been  held  on 
an  equal  footing,  in  regard  to  the  pleasure  they  yield, 
with  the  works  of  nature  herself,  and  have  sometimes 
been  deemed  superior.  This  subject  deserves  atten- 
tion ;  how  it  happens,  that  the  descriptions  of  the 
poet,  and  the  imitations  of  the  painter,  seem  to  com- 
municate more  delight  than  the  things  they  describe 
or  imitate. 

In  estimating  the  respective  merits  of  nature  and 
of  art,  it  will  readily  be  admitted,  that  the  preference, 
in  every  single  object,  is  due  to  the  former.  Take 
the  simplest  blossom  that  blows,  observe  its  tints  or 
its  structure,  and  you  will  own  them  unrivalled.  What 
pencil,  how  animated  soever,  can  equal  the  glories 
of  the  sky  at  sun-set  ?  or,  can  the  representations  of 
moonlight,  even  by  Homer,  Milton,  and  Shakespeare, 
be  more  exquisitely  finished  than  the  real  scenery  of 
a  moonlight  night  ? 

l  2 


116  THE    MIRROR. 

If  the  poet  and  painter  are  capable  of  yielding  su- 
perior pleasure,  in  their  exhibitions,  to  what  we 
receive  from  the  works  of  their  great  original,  it  is 
in  the  manner  of  grouping  their  objects,  and  by  their 
skill  in  arrangement.  In  particular,  they  give  un- 
common delight,  by  attending  not  merely  to  unity 
of  design,  but  to  unity,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  ex- 
pression, in  the  feelings  they  would  excite.  In  the 
works  of  nature,  unless  she  has  been  "ornamented 
and  reformed  by  the  taste  of  an  ingenious  improver, 
intentions  of  this  sort  are  very  seldom  apparent. 
Objects  that  are  gay,  melancholy,  solemn,  tranquil, 
impetuous,  and,  fantastic,  are  thrown  together, 
without  any  regard  to  the  influences  of  arrangement, 
or  to  the  consistency  of  their  effects  on  the  mind. 
The  elegant  artist,  on  the  contrary?  though  his 
works  be  adorned  with  unbounded  variety,  suggests 
only  those  objects  that  excite  similar  or  kindred 
emotions,  and  excludes  every  thing  of  an  opposite, 
or  even  of  a  different  tendency.  If  the  scene  he 
describes  be  solemn,  no  lively  nor  fantastic  image 
can  have  admission  :  but  if,  in  a  sprightly  mood,  he 
displays  scenes  of  festivity,  every  pensive  and  gloomy 
thought  is  debarred.  Thus  the  figures  he  delineates 
have  one  undivided  direction  ;  they  make  one  great 
and  entire  impression. 

To  illustrate  this  remark,  let  us  observe  the  con- 
duct of  Milton  in  his  two  celebrated  poems,  L' Alle- 
gro, and  II  Penseroso. 

In  the  Allegro,  meaning  to  excite  a  cheerful 
mood,  he  suggests  a  variety  of  objects  ;  for  variety, 
by  giving  considerable  exercise  to  the  mind,  and  by 
not  suffering  it  to  rest  long  on  the  same  appearance, 
occasions  brisk  and  exhilarating  emotions.  Accord- 
ingly, the  poet  shews  us,  at  one  glance,  and,  as  t 
were,  with  a  single  dash  of  his  pen, 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray, 


THE    MIRROR.  1  IT 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide. 

The  objects  themselves  are  cheerful ;  for,  besides 
her  itig  brooks,  meadows,  and  flowers,  we  have  the 
whistling  plowman,  the  singing  milk-maid,  the 
mower  whetting  his  scythe,  and  the  shepherd  piping 
beneath  a  shade.  These  images,  so  numerous,  so 
various,  and  so  cheerful,  are  animated  by  lively  con- 
trasts :  We  have  the  mountains  opposed  to  the 
meadows,  "  Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide."  Add 
to  this,  that  the  charms  of  the  landscape  are  height- 
ened by  the  bloom  of  a  smiling  season  ;  and  that 
the  light  poured  upon  the  whole  is  the  delightful  ra- 
diance of  a  summer  morning. 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Rob'd  in  flames  of  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liv'ries  dight. 

Every  image  is  lively  ;  every  thing  different  is  with- 
held ;  all  the  emotions  the  poet  excites  are  of  one 
character  and  complexion. 

Let  us  now  observe  the  conduct  of  his  II  Pense- 
roso.  This  poem  is,  in  every  respect,  an  exact 
counterpart  to  the  former.  And  the  intention  of  the 
poet  being  to  promote  a  serious  and  solemn  mood, 
he  removes  every  thing  lively  :  u  Hence  vain  delud- 
ing joys."  He  quits  society  ;  he  chuses  silence, 
and  opportunities  for  deep  reflection  ;  "  Some  still 
removed  place  will  fit."  The  objects  are  few.  In 
the  quotation,  beginning  with  "  Russet  lawns," 
there  are  eight  leading  images  ;  in  the  following, 
of  equal  length,  there  is  only  one  ; 

To  behold  the  wand'ring  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 


1 18  THE   MIRROR. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray- 
Through  the  heav'n's  wide  pathless  way  ,  . 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  rleecy  cloud. 

The  sounds  that  can  be,  in  any  respect,  agreeable  to 
him,  must  correspond  with  his  present  humour  : 
Not  the  song  of  the  milk-maid,  but  that  of  the  night- 
ingale ;  not  the  whistling  plowman,  but  the  sound  of 
the  curfeu.  His  images  succeed  one  another  slowly, 
without  any  rapid  or  abrupt  transitions,  without  any 
enlivening  contrasts  ;  and  he  will  have  no  other  light 
for  his  landscape  than  that  of  the  moon  :  Or,  if  hi; 
cannot  enjoy  the  scene  without  doors,  he  will  have 
no  other  light  within  than  that  of  dying  embers,  or 
of  a  solitary  lamp  at  midnight.  The  time,  and  the 
place  he  chuses  for  his  retreat,  are  perfectly  suited 
to  his  employment ;  for  he  is  engaged  in  deep  medi- 
tation, and  in  considering 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
Th'  immortal  mind. 

Every  image  is  solemn  ;  every  thing  different  i« 
withheld  :  here,  as  before,  all  the  emotions  the  poet 
excites  are  of  one  character  and  complexion.  It  is 
owing,  in  a  great  measure,  to  this  attention  in  the 
writer,  ,to  preserve  unity  and  consistency  of  senti- 
ment, that,  notwithstanding  considerable  imperfec- 
tions in  the  language  and  versification,  L'Allegro  and 
II  Penseroso  have  so  many  admirers. 

The  skill  of  the  poet  and  the  painter,  in  forming 
their  works  so  as  to  excite  kindred  and  united  emo- 
tions, deserves  the  greater  attention,  that  persons  of 
true  taste  are  not  so  much  affected,  even  in  contem- 
plating the  beauties  of  nature  with  the  mere  per- 
ception of  external  object,  as  with  the  general  in- 
fluences of  their  union  and  correspondence.  It  is 
.not  that  particular  tree,  or  that  cavern,  or  that  cas- 


THE    MIRROR.  1 19 

cade,  which  affords  them  all  their  enjoyment  ;  they 
derive  their  chief  pleasure  from  the  united  effect  of 
the  tree,  the  cavern,  and  the  cascade.  A  person  of 
sensibility  will  be  less  able,  perhaps,  than  another, 
to  give  an  exact  account  of  the  different  parts  of  an 
exquisite  landscape,  of  its  length,  width,  and  the 
number  of  objects  it  contains.  Yet  the  general  ef- 
fect possesses  him  altogether,  and  produces  in  his 
mind  very  uncommon  sensations.  The  impulse, 
however,  is  tender,  and  cannot  be  described.  In- 
deed, it  is  the  power  of  producing  these  sensations 
that  gives  the  stamp  of  genuine  excellence,  in  par- 
ticular, the  works  of  the  poet.  Verses  may  be  po- 
lished, and  glow  with  excellent  imagery  ;  but  unless, 
like  the  poems  of  Parnel,  or  the  lesser  poems  of 
Milton,  they  please  by  their  enchanting  influence  on 
the  heart,  and  by  exciting  feelings  that  are  consist- 
ent, or  of  a  similar  tendency,  they  are  never  truly 
delightful.  Horace,  I  think,  expresses  this  senti- 
ment, when    he  says,  in  the  words  of  my  motto, 

Non  satis  est  pulchra  esse  pee, nata  ;  dulcia  sunto; 

and  an  attention  to  this  circumstance  is  so  import- 
ant, that,  along  with  some  other  exertions,  it  enables 
the  poet  and   painter,  at  least,  to  rival  the  works  of 

nature. 


No.  XXV.  TUESDAY,  APRIL  20. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 
SOME  time  ago  I  troubled  you  with  a  letter,  giv- 
ing an  account  of  a  particular  sort  of  grievance  felt 
by  the  families  of  men  of  small  fortunes,  from  their 


120  THZ    MIRROR. 

acquaintance  with   those  cf  great  onec.     I  am  em- 
boldened by  the  favorable  reception  of*  my  first  letter 

to  write  you  a  second  upon  the  same  subject. 

You  will  remember,  Sir,  my  account  of  a  visit 
which  my  daughters  paid  to  a  great  lady  in  -our 
neighbourhood,  and  of  the  effects  which  that  visit 
had  upon  them.  I  was  beginning  to  hope  that  time, 
and  the  sobriety  of  manners  which  home  exhibited, 
would  restore  them  to  their  former  situation,  when 
unfortunately,  a  circumstance   happened,  still  more 

fatal  to  me  than  their  expedition  to .     This, 

vSir,  was  the  honour  of  a  visit  from  the  great  lady 
in  return. 

1  was  just  returning  from  the  superintendance  of 
my  plows  in  a  field  I  have  lately  inclosed,  when  I 
was  met,  on  the  green  before  my  door,  by  a  gentle- 
man (for  such  I  took  him  to  be)  mounted  upon  a 
very  handsome  gelding,  who  asked  me,  by  the  appel- 
lation cf  honest  friend,  if  this  was  not  Mr.  Home- 
spun's ;  and,  in  the  same  breath,  whether  the  ladies 
were  at  heme  ?  I  told  him,  my  name  was  HomespUn, 
the  house  was  mine,  and  my  wife  and  daughters 
were,  I  believed,  within.  Upon  this,  the  young 
man.  pulling  off  his  hat.  and  begging  my  pardon  for 
calling  me  honest,  said  lie  was  dispatched  by  Lady 

: — ,  with  her  compliments    to  Mrs.  and  Mi 

Homespun,  and  that,  if  convenient,  she  intended 
herself  the  honour  of  dining  with  them,  on  her  re- 
turn from   E Park,  (the  seat  of    ancther  great 

and  rich  lady  in  our  neighbourhood.) 

I  confess,  Mr.  Mirror,  I  was  struck  somewhat  cf 
a  heap  with  the  message  ;  and  it  would  not,  in  all 
probability,  have  received  an  immediate  answer,  had 
it  not  been  overheard  by  my  eldest  daughter,  who 
had  come  to  the  window  on  the  appearance  cf  a 
stranger.  "  Mr.  Fapillot,"  said  she  immediately, 
"  I  rejoice  to  see  you  ;  1  hope  your  lady,  and  all  the 
"  family,  are  well."     u  Very  much  at  your  service, 


THE    MIRROR.  121 

ma'am,"  he  replied,  with  a  low  how  ;  "  my  lady 
"  sent  me  before,  with  the  offer  of  her  best  com- 
"  pliments,  and  that,  if  convenient" — and  so  forth, 
repeating  his  words  to  me.  "  She  does  us  infi- 
u  nite  honour,"  said  my  young  madam,  "  let  her 
«'  ladyship  know  how  happy  her  visit  will  make  us  ; 
"  but,  in  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Papillot,  give  your 
"  horse  to  one  of  the  servants,  and  come  in  and 
"  have  a  glass  cf  something  after  your  ride."  "  I 
"  am  afraid,"  answered  he,  (pulling  out  his  right 
hand  watch,  for,  would  you  believe  it,  Sir,  the  fel  • 
low  had  one  in  each  fob,)  "  I  shall  hardly  have  time 
"  to  meet  my  lady  at  the  place  she  appointed  me." 
On  a  second  invitation,  however,  he  dismounted, 
and  went  into  the  house,  leaving  his  horse  to  the 
care  of  the  servants  ;  but  the  servants,  as  my  daugh- 
ter very  well  knew,  were  all  in  the  field  at  work  ; 
so  I,  who  have  a  liking  for  a  good  horse,  and  cannot 
bear  to  see  him  neglected,  had  the  honour  of  putting 
Mr.  Papillot's  in  the  stable  myself. 

After  about  an  hour's  stay,  for  the  gentleman 
seemed  to  forget  his  hurry  within  doors,  Mr.  Papil- 
lot departed.  My  daughters,  I  mean  the  two  polite 
ones,  observed  how  handsome  he  was  ;  and  added 
another  observation,  that  it  was  only  to  particular 
friends  my  lady  sent  messages  by  him,  who  was  her 
own  body-servant,  and  not  accustomed  to  such 
offices.  My  wife  seemed  highly  pleased  with  this 
last  remark  ;  I  was  about  to  be  angry  ;  but  on  such 
occasions  it  is  not  my  "way  to  say  much  ;  I  generally 
shrug  up  my  shoulders  in  silence  ;  yet,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, Mr.  Mirror,  I  would  not  have  you  think  me 
hen-peck'd. 

By  this  time,  every  domestic  about  my  house, 
male  and  female,  were  called  from  their  several  em- 
ployments to  assist  in  the  preparations  for  her  lady- 
ship's reception.  It  would  tire  you  to  enumerate  the 
various   shifts  that  were  made,  by  purchasing,  bor- 


122  THE    MIRROR. 

rowing,  See.  to  furnish  out  a  dinner  suitable  to  the 
occasion.  My  grey  little  poney,  which  1  keep  for 
sending  to  market,  broke  his  wind  in  the  cause,  and 
has  never  been  good  for  any  thing  since. 

Nor  was  there  less,  ado  in  making  ourselves  and 
our  attendants  fit  to  appear  before  such  company. 
The  female  part  of  the  family  managed  the  matter 
pretty  easily,  women,  I  observe,  having  a  natural 
talent  that  way.  My  wife  took  upon  herself  the 
charge  of  appareling  me  for  the  occasion.  A  laced 
suit  which  I  had  worn  at  my  marriage  was  got  up  for 
the  purpose  ;  but  the  breeches  burst  a  seam  at  the 
very  attempt  of  pulling  them  on,  and  the  sleeves  of 
the  coat  were  also  impracticable  ;  so  she  was  forced 
to  content  herself  with  clothing  me  in  my  Sunday's 
ccat  and  breeches,  with  the  laced  waistcoat  of  the 
above-mentioned  suit,  slit  in  the  back,  to  set  them 
off  a  little.  My  gardener,  who  has  been  accustomed, 
indeed,  to  serve  in  many  capacities,  had  his  head 
cropped,  curled,  and  powdered,  for  the  part  of  but- 
ler ;  one  of  the  best  looking  plow-boys  had  a  yellow 
cape  clapped  to  his  Sunday's  coat  to  make  him  pass 
for  a  servant  in  livery  ;  and  we  borrowed  my  son-in- 
law  the  parson's  man  for  a  third  hand. 

All  this  was  accomplished,  though  not  without 
some  tumult  and  disorder,  before  the  arrival  of  the 
great  lady.  She  gave  us,  indeed,  more  time  for  the 
purpose  than  we  looked  for,  as  it  was  near  six  o'clock 
before  she  arrived.  But  this  was  productive  of  a  mis- 
fortune on  the  other  hand  ;  the  dinner  my  poor  wife 
had  bustled,  sweated,  and  scolded  for,  was  so  over- 
boiled, over-stewed,  and  over-roasted,  that  it  needed 
the  appetite  of  so  late  an  hour  to  make  it  go  well 
down  even  with  me,  who  am  not  very  nice  in  these 
matters  :  luckily  her  ladyship,  as  I  am  told,  never 
eats  much,  for  fear  of  spoiling  her  shape,  now  that 
small  waists  have  come  into  fashion  again. 


THE    MIRROR.  12$ 

The  dinner,  however,  though  spoiled  in  the  cook- 
ing, was  not  thrown  away,  as  her  ladyship's  train 
made  shift  to  eat  the  greatest  part  of  it.  When  I 
say  her  train,  I  do  not  mean  her  servants  only,  of 
which  there  were  half  a  dozen  in  livery,  beside  the 
illustrious  Mr.  Papillot,  and  her  ladyship's  maid,  gen- 
tlewoman I  should  say,  who  had  a  table  to  them- 
selves. Her  parlour-attendants  were  equally  nume- 
rous, consisting  of  two  ladies  and  six  gentlemen,  who 
had  accompanied  her  ladyship  in  this  excursion,  and 
did  us  the  honour  of  coming  to  eat  and  drink  with 
us,  and  bringing  their  servants  to  do  the  same,  though 
we  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  them  before. 

During  the  progress  of  this  entertainment,  there 
were  several  little  embarrassments  which  might  ap- 
pear ridiculous  in  description,  but  were  matters  of 
serious  distress  to  us.  Soup  was  spilled,  dishes  over- 
turned, and  glasses  broken,  by  the  awkwardness  of 
our  attendants  ;  and  things  were  not  a  bit  mended  by 
my  wife's  solicitude  (who,  to  do  her  justice,  had  all 
her  eyes  about  her)  t©  correct  them. 

From  the  time  of  her  ladyship's  arrival,  it  was  im- 
possible that  dinner  could  be  over  before  it  was  dark ; 
this,  with  the  consideration  of  the  bad  road  she  had 
to  pass  through  in  her  way  to  the  next  house  she 
meant  to  visit,  produced  aa  invitation  from  my  wife 
and  daughters  to  pass  the  night  with  us,  which,  after 
a  few  words  of  apology  for  the  trouble  she  gave  us, 
and  a  few  more  of  the  honour  we  received,  was  agreed 
to.  This  gave  rise  to  a  new  scene  of  preparation, 
rather  more  difficult  than  that  before  dinner.  My 
wife  and  I  were  dislodged  from  our  own  apartment, 
to  make  room  for  our  noble  guest.  Our  four  daugh* 
ters  were  crammed  in  by  us,  and  slept  on  the  floor, 
that  their  rooms  might  be  left  for  the  two  ladies  and 
four  of  the  gentlemen  who  were  entitled  to  the  great- 
est degree  of  respect ;  for  the  remaining  two,  we 
found  beds  at  my  son-in-law's.    My  two  eldest  daugh- 

VOL.    I.  M 


124  THE   MIRROR. 

ters  had,  indeed,  little  time  to  sleep,  being  closetted 
the  greatest  part  of  the  night  with  their  right  honour- 
able visitor.  My  offices  were  turned  topsy  turvy  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  servants  of  my  guests,  and 
my  own  horses  turned  into  the  fields,  that  their's 
might  occupy  my  stable. 

All  these  are  hardships  of  their  kind,  Mr.  Mirror, 
which  the  honour  that  accompanies  them  seems  to 
me  not  fully  to  compensate  ;  but  these  are  slight 
grievances,  in  comparison  with  what  I  have  to  com- 
plain of  as  the  effects  of  this  visit.  The  malady  of 
my  two  eldest  daughters  is  not  only  returned  with 
increased  violence  upon  them,  but  has  now  commu- 
nicated itself  to  every  other  branch  of  my  family. 
My  wife,  formerly  a  decent  discreet  woman,  who 
liked  her  own  way,  indeed,  but  was  a  notable  manager, 
now  talks  of  this  and  that  piece  of  expence  as  neces- 
sary to  the  rank  of  a  gentlewoman,  and  has  lately 
dropped  some  broad  hints  that  a  winter  in  town  is  ne- 
cessary to  the  accomplishment  of  one.  My  two 
younger  daughters  have  got  the  heads  that  formerly 
belonged  to  their  elder  sisters,  to  each  of  whom,  un- 
fortunately, the  great  lady  presented  a  set  of  feathers, 
for  which  new  heads  were  essentially  requisite. 

The  inside  of  all  of  them  has  undergone  a  very 
striking  metamorphosis  from  this  one  night's  in- 
struction of  their  visitor.  There  is,  it  seems,  a  fashion 
in  morality,  as  well  as  in  dress  ;  and  the  present 
mode  is  not  quite  so  strait-laced  as  the  stays  are. 
My  two  fine   ladies  talked,  a  few  mornings  ago,  of 

stech  a  gentleman's  connection  with  Miss  C ,  and 

such  another's  arrangement  with  Lady  G ,  with 

all  the  ease  in  the  world  ;  yet  these  words,  I  find, 
being  interpreted,  mean  nothing  less  than  fornication 
and  adultery.  I  sometimes  remonstrate  warmly,  es- 
pecially when  I  have  my  son-in-law  to  back  me, 
against  these  new-fangled  freedoms ;  but  another 
doctrine  they  have   learned   is#  that  a  father  and  a 


THil   MIRROR.  125 

parson  may  preach  as  they  please,  but  are  to  be  fol- 
lowed only  according  to  the  inclination  of  their  audi- 
ence.    Indeed  1  could  not  help  observing,  that  my 

Lady never  mentioned  her  absent  lord,  (who, 

I  understand,  is  seldom  of  her  parties,)  except  some- 
times to  let  us  know  how  much  she  differed  in  opi- 
nion from  him. 

This  contempt  of  authority,  and  affectation  of  fa- 
shion, has  gone  a  step  lower  in  my  household.  My 
gardener  has  tied  his  hair  behind,  and  stolen  my  flour 
to  powder  it  ever  since  he  saw  Mr.  Papillot ;  and 
yesterday  he  gave  me  warning  that  he  should  leave 
me  next  term,  if  I  did  not  take  him  into  the  house, 
and  provide  another  hand  for  the  work  in  the  garden. 
I  found  a  great  hoyden,  who  washes  my  daughters' 
linens,  sitting,  the  other  afternoon,  dressed  in  one  of 
their  cast  fly-caps,  entertaining  this  same  oaf  of  a  gar- 
dener, and  the  wives  of  two  of  my  farm-servants,  with 
tea,  forsooth  ;  and  when  I  quarrelled  her  for  it,  she 
replied,  that  Mrs.  Dimity,  my  Lady 's  gen- 
tlewoman, told  her  all  the  maids  at had  tea, 

and  saw  company,  of  an  afternoon. 

But  I  am  resolved  on  a  reformation,  Mr.  Mirror, 
and  shall  let  my  wife  and  daughters  know,  that  I  wHl 
be  master  of  my  own  house  and  my  own  expences, 
and  will  neither  be  made  a  fool  nor  a  beggar,  though 
it  were  after  the  manner  of  the  greatest  lord  in  Chris- 
tendom. Yet  I  confess  I  am  always  for  trying  gentle 
methods  first.  I  beg,  therefore,  that  you  will  insert 
this  in  your  next  paper,  and  add  to  it  some  exhorta- 
tions of  your  own  to  prevail  on  them,  if  possible,  to 
give  over  a  behaviour,  which,  I  think,  under  favour, 
is  rather  improper  even  in  great  folks,  but  is  cer- 
tainly ruinous  to  little  ones. 
I  am,  Sec. 

John  Homespwn. 

Mr.  Homespun's  relation,  too  valuable  to  be  short- 
ened, leaves  me  not   room  at  present  for  any  obser- 


126  THE    MIRROR. 

vations.  But  I  have  seen  the  change  of  manners 
among  some  of  my  countrywomen,  for  several  years 
past,  with  the  most  sensible  regret ;  and  I  intend 
soon  to  devote  a  paper  to  a  serious  remonstrance 
with  them  on  the  subject. 


No.  XXVI.     SATURDAY,  APRIL  24. 

NOTHING  can  give  a  truer  picture  of  the  man- 
ners of  any  particular  age,  or  point  out  more  strongly 
those  circumstances  which  distinguish  it  from  others, 
than  the  change  that  takes  place  in  the  rules  esta- 
blished as  to  the  external  conduct  of  men  in  society, 
or  in  what  may  be  called  the  system  of  politeness. 

It  were  absurd  to  say,  that,  from  a  man's  external 
conduct,  we  are  always  to  judge  of  the  feelings  of  his 
mind  ;  but,  certainly,  when  there  are  rules  laid  down 
for  men's  external  behaviour  to  one  another,  we  may 
conclude,  that  there  are  some  general  feelings  pre- 
valent among  the  people  which  dictate  those  rules, 
and  make  a  deviation  from  them  be  considered  as 
improper.  When  at  any  time,  therefore,  an  altera- 
tion in  those  general  rules  takes  place,  it  is  reason- 
able to  suppose  that  the  change  has  been  produced 
by  some  alteration  in  the  feelings,  and  in  the  ideas  of 
propriety  and  impropriety  of  the  people. 

Whoever  considers  the  rules  of  external  behaviour 
established  about  a  century  ago,  must  be  convinced, 
that  much  less  attention  was  then  paid  by  men  of 
high  rank  to  the  feelings  of  those  beneath  them,  than 
in  the  present  age.  In  that  xra  a  man  used  to  mea- 
sure out  his  complaisance  to  others  according  to  the 
degree  of  rank  in  which  they  stood,  compared  with 
his  ow7n.     A  peer  had  a  certain  manner  of  address  and 


THE    MIRRCR.  127 

salutation  to  a  peer  of  equal  rank,  a  different  one  to 
a  peer  of  an  inferior  order,  and,  to  a  commoner,  the 
mode  of  address  was  diversified  according  to  the  an- 
tiquity of  his  family,  or  the  extent  of  his  possessions  ; 
so  that  a  stranger  who  happened  to  be  present  at  the 
levee  of  a  great  man,  could,  with  tolerable  certainty, 
by  examining  his  features,  or  attending  to  the  low- 
ness  of  his  bow,  judge  of  the  different  degrees  o£ 
dignity  among  his  visitors. 

Were  it  the  purpose  of  the  present  paper,  this 
might  be  traced  back  to  a  very  remote  period.  By 
the  Earl  of  Northumberland's  household  book,  begun 
in  the  year  15 12,  it  appears,  that  my  lord's  board-end, 
that  is  to  say,  the  end  of  the  table  where  he  and  his 
principal  guests  were  seated,  was  served  with  a  dif- 
ferent and  more  delicate  sort  of  viands,  than  those 
allotted  to  the  lower  end.  "  It  is  thought  good," 
says  that  curious  record,  "  that  no  pluvers  be  bought 
"  at  no  time  but  only  in  Christmas,  and  principal 
"  feasts,  and  my  lord  to  be  served  therewith,  and  his 
"  board-end,  and  no  other."* 

In  this  country,  and  in  a  period  nearer  our  own 
times,  we  have  heard  of  a  Highland  chieftain,  who 
died  not  half  a  century  ago,  remarkable  for  his  hos- 
pitality, and  for  having  his  table  constantly  crowded 
with  a  number  of  guests  :  possessing  a  high  idea  of 
the  dignity  of  his  family,  and  warmly  rttached  to 
ancient  manners,  he  was  in  use  very  nicely  to  discri- 
minate, by  his  behaviour  to  them,  the  ranks  of  the 
different  persons  he  entertained.  The  head  of  the 
table  was  occupied  by  himself,  and  the  rest  of  the 
company  sat  nearer  or  more  remote  from  him  ac- 
cording to  their  respective  ranks.     All,  indeed,  were 

*  The  line  of  distinction  was  marked  by  a  large  Salt-Seller 
placed  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  above  which,  at  "  my  lord's 
"  board-end,"  sat  the  distinguished  guests;  and  below  it  tho&e 
of  an  inferior  class. 

M  % 


128  THE   MIRROR. 

allowed  to  partake  of  the  same  food  ;  but,  when  the 
liquor  was  produced,  which  was  at  that  time,  and 
perhaps  still  is  in  some  parts  of  Scotland,  accounted 
the  principal  part  of  a  feast,  a  different  sort  of  beve- 
rage was  assigned  to  the  guests,  according  to  their 
different  dignities.  The  landlord  himself,  and  his 
family,  or  near  relations,  drank  wine  of  the  best  kind  ; 
to  persons  next  in  degree,  was  allotted  wine  of  an 
inferior  sort ;  and  to  guests  of  a  still  lower  rank,  were 
allowed  only  those  liquors  which  were  the  natural 
produce  of  the  country.  This  distinction  was  agree- 
able to  the  rules  of  politeness  at  that  time  establish- 
ed :  the  entertainer  did  not  feel  any  thing  disagree- 
able in  making  it  ;  nor  did  any  of  the  entertained 
think  themselves  intitled  to  take  this  treatment  amiss. 
It  must  be  admitted,  that  a  behaviour  of  this  sort 
would  not  be  consonant  to  the  rules  of  politeness  esta- 
blished in  the  present  age.  A  man  of  good  breeding 
now  considers  the  same  degree  of  attention  to  be  due 
to  every  man  in  the  rank  of  a  gentleman,  be  his  for- 
tune or  the  antiquity  of  his  family  what  it  may  ;  nay, 
a  man  of  real  politeness  will  feel  it  rather  more  in- 
cumbent on  him  to  be  attentive  and  complaisant  to 
his  inferiors  in  these  respects,  than  to  his  equals. 
The  idea  which  ^n  modern  times  is  entertained  of 
politeness,  points  out  such  a  conduct.  It  is  founded 
on  this,  that  a  man  of  a  cultivated  mind  is  taught  to 
feel  a  greater  degree  of  pleasme  in  attending  to  the 
ease  and  happiness  of  people  with  whom  he  mixes  in 
society,  than  in  studying  his  own.  On  this  account, 
he  gives  up  what  would  be  agreeable  to  his  own 
taste,  because  he  finds  more  satisfaction  in  humour- 
ing the  taste  of  others.  Thus,  a  gentleman,  now-ar 
days,  takes  the  lowest  place  at  his  own  table ;  and, 
if  there  be  any  delicacy  there,  it  is  set  apart  for  his 
guests.  The  entertainer  finds  a  much  more  sensi- 
ble pleasure  in  bestowing  it  oa  them,  than  in  taking, 
it  to  himself. 


THE    MIRROR.  12§ 

From  the  same  cause,  if  a  gentleman  be  in  com- 
pany with  another  not  so  opulent  as  himself,  or  how- 
ever worthy,  not  possessed  of  the  same  degree  of 
those  adventitious  honours  which  are  held  in  esteem 
by  the  world,  politeness  will  teach  the  former  to  pay 
peculiar  attention  and  observation  to  the  latter.  Men, 
even  of  the  highest  minds,  when  they  are  first  intro- 
duced into  company  with  their  superiors  in  rank  or 
fortune,  are  apt  to  feel  a  certain  degree  of  awkward- 
ness and  uneasiness  which  it  requires  some  time  and 
habit  to  wear  off.  A  man  of  fortune  or  of  rank,  if 
possessed  of  a  sensible  mind,  and  real  politeness,  will 
feel,  and  be  at  particular  pains  to  remove  this.  Hence 
he  will  be  led  to  be  rather  more  attentive  to  those, 
who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  multitude,  are  reckoned  his 
inferiors,  than  to  others  who  are  more  upon  a  footing 
with  him. 

It  is  not  proposed,  in  this  paper  to  enquire  what 
are  the  causes  of  the  difference  of  men's  ideas,  as 
to  the  rules  of  politeness  in  this  and  the  former  age. 
It  is  sufficient  to  observe,  and  the  reflection  is  a  very 
pleasant  one,  that  the  modern  rules  of  good  breeding 
must  give  us  a  higher  idea  of  the  humanity  and  re^ 
finement  of  this  age  than  of  the  former ;  and,  though 
the  mode  of  behaviour  above  mentioned  may  not  be 
universally  observed  in  practice,  yet  it  is  hoped  it 
will  not  be  disputed  that  it  is  consonant  to  the  rules 
which  are  now  pretty  generally  established. 

It  ought,  however,  to  be  observed,  that,  when  we 
speak,  even  at  this  day,  of  good-breeding,  of  polite- 
ness, of  complaisance,  these  expressions  are  always 
confined  to  our  behaviour  towards  those  who  are  con- 
sidered to  be  in  the  rank  of  gentlemen  ;  but  no  sys,- 
tem  of  politeness  or  of  complaisance  is  established, 
at  least  in  this  country,  for  our  behaviour  to  those  of 
a  lower  station.  The  rules  of  good  breeding  do  not 
extend  to  them  ;  and  he  may  be  esteemed  the  best 
bred  man  in  the  world  who  is  a  very  brute  to  his.  sec- 
\ants.  ami  dependents. 


ISO  THE   MIRROR. 

This  I  cannot  help  considering  as  a  matter  of  re- 
gret ;  and  it  were  to  be  wished  that  the  same  huma- 
nity and  refinement  which  recommends  an  equal  at- 
tention to  all  in  the  rank  of  gentlemen,  would  extend 
some  degree  of  that  attention  to  those  who  are  in 
stations  below  them. 

It  will  require  but  little  observation  to  be  satisfied 
that  all  men,  in  whatever  situation,  are  endowed  with 
the  same  feelings,  (though  education  or  example  may- 
give  them  a  different  modification)  and  that  one  in 
the  lowest  rank  of  life  may  be  sensible  of  a  piece  of 
insolence,  or  an  affront,  as  well  as  one  in  the  highest. 
Nay,  it  ought  to  be  considered,  that  the  greater  the 
disproportion  of  rank,  the  affront  will  be  the  more 
sensibly  felt ;  the  greater  the  distance  from  which  it 
comes,  and  the  more  unable  the  person  affronted  to 
revenge  it,  by  so  much  the  heavier  will  it  falL 

It  is  not  meant  that,  in  our  transactions  with  men 
of  a  very  low  station,  and  who,  from  their  circum- 
stances and  the  wants  of  society,  must  be  employed 
in  servile  labour,  we  are  to  behave,  in  all  respects,  as 
to  those  who  are  in  the  rank  of  gentlemen.  The 
thing  is  impossible,  and  such  men  do  not  expect  it. 
But,  in  all  our  intercourse  with  them,  we  ought  to 
consider  that  they  are  men  possessed  of  like  feelings 
with  ourselves,  which  nature  has  given  them,  and  no 
situation  can  or  ught  to  eradicate.  When  we  employ 
them  in  the  labour  of  life,  it  ought  to  be  our  study 
to  demand  that  labour  in  the  manner  easiest  to  them  ; 
and  we  should  never  forget,  that  gentleness  is  part 
of  the  wages  we  owe  them  for  their  service. 

Yet  how  many  men,  in  other  respects  of  the  best 
and  most  respectable  characters,  are,  from  inadver- 
tency, or  the  force  of  habit,  deaf  to  those  consider- 
ations ;  and,  indeed,  the  thing  has  been  so  little  at- 
tended to,  that  in  this,  which  has  been  called  a  polite 
age,  complaisance  to  servants  and  dependents  is  not, 
as  I  have  already  observed,  at  least  in  this  country* 
considered  as  making  any  part  of  politeness. 


THE    MIRROR.  131 

But  there  is  another  set  of  persons  still  more  ex- 
posed to  be  ireated  roughly  than  even  domestic  ser- 
vants, and  these  are  the  waiters  at  inns  and  taverns. 
Between  a  master  and  servant  a  certain  connection 
subsists,  which  prevents  the  former  from  using  the 
latter  very  ill.  The  servant,  if  he  is  good  for  any 
thing,  naturally  forms  an  attachment  to  his  master 
and  to  his  interest,  which  produces  a  mutual  inter- 
course of  kindness  between  them.  But  no  connec- 
tion of  this  sort  can  be  formed  with  the  temporary 
attendants  above  mentioned.  Hence  the  monstrous 
abuse  which  such  persons  frequently  suffer ;  every 
traveller,  and  every  man  who  enters  a  tavern,  thinks 
he  is  intitled  to  vent  his  own  ill  humour  upon  them, 
and  vollies  of  curses  are  too  often  the  only  language 
they  meet  with. 

Having  mentioned  the  waiters  in  inns  and  taverns, 
I  cannot  avoid  taking  particular  notice  of  the  treat- 
ment to  which  those  of  the  female  sex,  who  are  em- 
ployed in  places  of  that  sort,  are  often  exposed. 
Th^ir  situation  is,  indeed,  peculiarly  unfortunate.  If 
a  girl  in  an  inn  happens  to  be  handsome,  and  a  parcel 
of  young  thoughtless  fellows  cast  their  eyes  upon  her, 
she  is  immediately  made  the  subject  of  taunt  and 
merriment ;  coarse  and  indecent  jokes  are  often  ut- 
tered In  her  hearing,  and  conversation  shocking  to 
modest  ears  is  frequently  addressed  to  her.  The 
poor  girl,  all  the  while,  is  at  a  loss  how  to  behave  ; 
if  she  venture  on  a  spirited  answer,  the  probable  con- 
sequence will  be  to  raise  the  mirth  of  the  facetious 
company,  and  to  expose  her  to  a  repetition  of  insults. 
If,  guided  by  the  feelings  of  modesty,  she  avoid  the 
presence  of  the  impertinent  guests,  she  is  com- 
plained of  for  neglecting  her  duty  ;  she  loses  the  lit- 
tle perquisite  which,  otherwise,  she  would  be  intitled 
to ;  perhaps  disobliges  her  mistress,  and  loses  her 
place.  Whoever  attends  but  for  a  moment  to  the 
case  of  a  poor  girl  so  situated,  if  he  be  not  lost  to  all 


132  THE    MIRIIOR. 

tense  of  virtue,  must  feel  his  heart  relent  at  the  cru- 
elty of  taking  advantage  of  such  a  situation.  But 
the  misfortune  is,  that  we  seldom  attend  to  such  cases 
at  all  ;  we  sometimes  think  of  the  fatigues  and  suf- 
ferings incident  to  the  bodies  of  our  inferiors  ;  but 
we  scarcely  ever  allow  any  sense  of  pain  to  their 
minds. 

Among  the  French,  whom  we  mimic  in  much  false 
politeness,  without  learning  from  them,  as  we  might 
do,  much  of  the  true,  the  observances  of  good-breed- 
ing are  not  confined  merely  to  gentlemen,  but  ex- 
tend to  persons  of  the  lowest  ranks.  Thus,  a  French- 
man hardly  ever  addresses  his  servant,  without  culling 
him  Monsieur,  and  the  meanest  woman  in  a  country 
village  is  addressed  by  the  appellation  of  Madame. 
The  accosting,  in  this  manner,  people  of  so  very  low 
a  rank,  in  the  same  terms  with  those  so  much 
their  superiors,  may  perhaps  appear  extravagant ; 
but  the  practice  shews  how  much  that  refined  and 
elegant  people  are  attentive  to  the  feelings  of  the 
meanest,  when  they  have  extended  the  rules  and  ce- 
remonial of  politeness  even  to  them. 

S 


No.  XXVII.     TUESDAY,  APRIL  27. 

There  is  a  kind  of  mournful  eloquence 

In  thy  dumb  grief,  which  shames  all  clamorous  sorrow. 

LEt's  Theodosius. 

A  VERY  amiable  and  much  respected  friend  of 
mine,  whose  real  name  I  shall  conceal  under  that  of 
Wentworth,  had  lately  the  misfortune  of  losing  a 
wife,  who  was  not  only  peculiarly  beautiful,  but  whose 
soul  was  the  mansion  of  every  virtue,  and  of  every 
elegant  accomplishment.     She   was  suddenly  cut  off 


THE   MIRROR.  133 

in  the  flower  of  her  age,  ajter  having  lived  twelve 
years  with  the  best  and  most  affectionate  of  husbands. 
A  perfect  similarity  of  temper  and  disposition,  a  kin- 
dred delicacy  of  taste  and  sentiment,  had  linked  their 
hearts  together  in  early  youth,  and  each  succeeding 
year  seemed  but  to  add  new  strength  to  their  affec- 
tion. Though  possessed  of  an  affluent  fortune,  they 
preferred  the  tranquillity  of  the  country  to  all  the 
gay  pleasures  of  the  capital.  In  the  cultivation  of 
their  estate,  in  cherishing  the  virtuous  industry  of 
its  inhabitants,  in  ornamenting  a  beautiful  seat,  in 
the  society  of  one  another,  in  the  innocent  prattle  of 
their  little  children,  and  in  the  company  of  a  few 
friends,  Mr.  Wentworth  and  his  Amelia  found  every 
wish  gratified,  and  their  happiness  complete. 

My  readers  will  judge,  then,  what  must  have  been 
Mr.  Wentworth's  feelings  when  Amelia  was  thus  sud- 
denly torn  from  him,  in  the  very  prime  of  her  life, 
and  in  the  midst  of  her  felicity.  I  dreaded  the  effects 
of  it  upon  a  mind  of  his  nice  and  delicate  sensibility ; 
and,  receiving  a  letter  from  his  brother,  requesting 
me  to  come  to  them,  I  hastened  thither,  to  endea- 
vour, by  my  presence,  to  assuage  his  grief,  and  pre- 
vent those  fatal  consequences,  of  which  I  was  so  ap- 
prehensive. 

As  I  approached  the  house,  the  sight  of  all  the 
well-known  scenes  brought  fresh  into  my  mind  the 
remembrance  of  Amelia  ;  and  I  felt  myself  but  ill 
qualified  to  act  the  part  of  a  comforter.  When  my 
carriage  stopped  at  the  gate,  I  trembled,  and  would 
have  given  the  world  to  go  back.  A  heart-feJt  sorrow 
sat  on  the  countenance  of  every  servant;  and  I  walked 
into  the  house,  without  a  word  being  uttered.  In 
the  hall  I  was  met  by  the  old  butler,  who  has  grown 
gray -headed  in  the  family,  and  he  hastened  to  con- 
duct me  up  stairs.  As  I  walked  up,  I  commanded 
firmness  enough  to  say,  "  Well,  William,  how  is 
Mr.  Wentworth  V  The  old  man,  turning  about  with 


134  THE   MIRROR. 

a  look  that  pierced  my  heart,  said,  "  Oh,  Sir,  our 
excellent  lady  I"  Here  his  grief  overwhelmed 
him  ;  and  it  was  with  difficulty  he  was  able  to  open 
to  me  the  door  of  the  apartment. 

Mr.  Wentworth  ran  and  embraced  me  with  the 
warmest  affection,  and,  after  a  few  moments,  assum- 
ed a  firmness,  and  even  an  ease,  that  surprised  me. 
His  brother,  with  a  sister .  of  Amelia's,  and  some 
other  friends  that  were  in  the  room,  appeared  more 
overpowered  than  my  friend  himself,  who,  by  the 
fortitude  of  his  behaviour,  seemed  rather  to  mode- 
rate the  grief  of  those  around  him,  than  to  demand 
their  compassion  for  himself.  By  his  gentle  and  kind 
attentions,  he  seemed  anxious  to  relieve  their  sorrow, 
and,  by  a  sort  of  concerted  tranquillity,  strove  to 
prevent  their  discovering  any  symptoms  of  the  bitter 
anguish  which  preyed  upon  his  mind.  His  counte- 
nance was  pale,  and  his  eyes  betrayed  that  his  heart 
was  ill  at  ease  ;  but  it  was  that  silent  and  majestic 
sorrow  which  commands  our  reverence  and  our  ad- 
miration. 

Next  morning  after  breakfast  I  chanced  to  take  up 
a  volume  of  Metastatio,  that  lay  amongst  other  books 
upon  a  table  ;  and,  as  I  was  turning  over  the  leaves, 
a  slip  of  paper,  with  something  written  on  it,  dropped 
upon  the  floor.  Mr.  Wentworth  picked  it  up  ;  and, 
as  he  looked  at  it,  I  saw  the  tears  start  into  his  eyes, 
and,  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  he  uttered,  in  a  low  and 
broken  voice,  "  My  poor  Amelia  !" — It  was  a  trans- 
lation of  a  favourite  passage  which  she  had  been  at- 
tempting, but  had  left  unfinished.  As  if  uneasy  lest 
I  had  perceived  his  emotion,  he  carelessly  threw  his 
arm  over  my  shoulder,  and  reading  aloud  a  few  lines 
of  the  page  which  I  held  open  in  my  hand,  he  went 
into  some  remarks  on  the  poetry  of  that  elegant  au- 
thor. Some  time  after,  I  observed  him  take  up  the 
book,  and  carefully  replacing  the  slip  of  paper  where 
it  had  been,  put  the  volume  in  his  pocket. 


THE  MIRROR.  135 

Mr.  Wentworth  proposed  that  we  should  walk  out, 
and  that  he  himself  would  accempany  us.  As  we 
stepped  through  the  hall,  one  of  my  friend's  youngest 
boys  came  running  up,  and  catching  his  papa  by  the 
hand,  cried  out  with  joy,  that,  "  Mamma's  Rover 
"  was  returned."  This  was  a  spaniel,  who  had  been 
the  favourite  of  Amelia,  and  had  followed  her  in  all 
her  walks  ;  but,  after  her  death,  had  been  sent  to  the 
house  of  a  villager,  to  be  out  of  the  immediate  sight 
of  the  family.  Having  somehow  made  its  escape 
from  thence,  the  dog  had  that  morning  found  his  way 
home  ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  saw  Mr.  Wentworth, 
leaped  upon  him  with  an  excess  of  fondness.  I  saw 
my  friend's  lips  and  cheeks  quiver.  He  catched  his 
little  Frank  in  his  arms  ;  and,  for  a  few  moments, 
hid  his  face  in  his  neck. 

As  we  traversed  his  delightful  grounds,  many  dif- 
ferent scenes  naturally  recalled  the  remembrance  of 
Amelia.  My  friend,  indeed,  in  order  to  avoid  some 
of  her  favourite  walks,  had  conducted  us  to  an  unusual 
road  ;  but  what  corner  could  be  found,  that  did  not 
bear  the  trace  of  her  hand  ?  Her  elegant  taste  had 
marked  the  peculiar  beauty  of  each  different  scene, 
and  had  brought  it  forth  to  view  with  such  a  happy 
delicacy  of  art,  as  to  make  it  seem  the  work  of  na- 
ture alone.  As  we  crossed  certain  paths  in  the  woods, 
and  passed  by  some  rustic  buildings,  I  could  some- 
times discern  an  emotion  in  my  friend's  countenance ; 
but  he  instantly  stifled  it  with  a  firmness  and  dignity 
Chat  made  me  careful  not  to  seem  to  observe  it. 

Towards  night,  Mr.  Wentworth  having  stolen  out 
of  the  room,  his  brother  and  I  stepped  out  to  a  ter- 
race behind  the  house.  It  was  the  dusk  of  the  even- 
ing, the  air  was  mild  and  serene,  and  the  moon  was 
rising  in  all  her  brightness  from  the  cloud  of  the  east. 
The  fineness  of  the  night  made  us  extend  our  walk, 
and  we  strayed  into  a  hollow  valley,  whose  sides  are 
covered  with  trees  overhanging  a  brook  that  pours 

tol.  i.  x 


136 


THE    MIRROR. 


itself  along  over  broken  rocks.  We  approached  a 
rustic  grotto  placed  in  a  sequestered  corner  under 
a  half-impending  rock.  My  companion  stopped, 
"  This,"  said  he,  "  was  one  of  Amelia's  walks,  and 
"  that  grotto  was  her  favourite  evening  retreat.  The 
"  last  night  she  ever  walked  out,  and  the  very 
"  evening  she  caught  that  fatal  fever,  I  was  with  my 
"  brother  and  her,  while  we  sat  and  read  to  each 
"  other  in  that  very  place."  While  he  spoke,  we 
perceived  a  man  steal  out  of  the  grotto,  and  avoid- 
ing us,  take  his  way  by  a  path  through  a  thicket  of 
trees  on  the  other  side.  «  It  is  my  brother,"  said 
young  Wentworth  ;  "  he  has  been  here  in  his  Ame- 
u  lia's  favourite  grove,  indulging  that  grief  he  so 
"  carefully  conceals  from  us." 

We  returned  to  the  house,  and  found  Mr.  Went- 
worth with  the  rest  of  the  company.  He  forced  on 
some  conversation,  and  even  affected  a  degree  of  gen- 
tle pleasantry  during  the  whole  evening. 

Such,  in  short,  is  the  noble  deportment  of  my 
friend,  that,  in  place  of  finding  it  necessary  to  tem- 
per and  moderate  his  grief,  1  must  avoid  seeming  to 
perceive  it,  and  dare  scarcely  appear  even  to  think 
of  the  heavy  calamity  which  has  befallen  him.  I 
too  well  know  what  he  feels  ;  but  the  more  I  know 
this,  the  more  does  the  dignity  of  his  recollection 
and  fortitude  excite  my  admiration,  and  command 
my  silent  attention  and  respect. 

How  very  different  is  this  dignified  and  reserved 
sorrow  from  that  weak  and  teasing  grief  which  dis- 
gusts, by  its  sighs  and  tears,  and  clamorous  lamen- 
tions  ?  How  much  does  such  noble  fortitude  of  de- 
portment call  forth  our  regard  and  reverence  ?  How 
much  is  a  character,  in  other  respects  estimable, 
degraded  by  a  contrary  demeanour  ?  How  much  does 
the  excessive,  the  importunate,  and  unmanly  grief  of 
Cicero,  diminish  the  very  high  respect  which  we 
should  otherwise  entertain  for  the  exalted  character 
of  that  illustrious  Roman  ? 


THE    MIRROR.  137 

Writers  on  practical  morality  have  described  and 
analized  the  passion  of  grief,  and  have  pretended  to 
prescribe  remedies  for  restoring  the  mind  to  tran- 
quillity ;  but,  I  believe,  little  benefit  has  been  derived 
from  any  thing  they  have  advised.  To  tell  a  person 
in  grief,  that  time  will  relieve  him,  is  truly  applying 
no  remedy  ;  and,  to  bid  him  reflect  how  many  others 
there  may  be  who  are  more  wretched,  is  a  very  in- 
efficacious one.  The  truth  is,  that  the  excess  of  this, 
as  well  as  of  other  passions,  must  be  prevented  rather 
than  cured.  It  must  be  obviated,  by  our  attaining 
that  erenness  and  equality  of  temper,  which  can 
arise  only  from  an  improved  understanding,  and  an 
habitual  intercourse  with  refined  society.  These 
will  not,  indeed,  exempt  us  from  the  pangs  of  sor- 
row, but  will  enable  us  to  bear  them  with  a  noble 
grace  and  propriety,  and  will  render  the  presence  of 
our  friends  (which  is  the  only  remedy)  a  very  effec- 
tual cure. 

This  is  well  explained  by  a  philosopher,  who  is  no 
less  eloquent  than  he  is  profound.  He  justly  ob- 
serves, that  we  naturally  on  all  occasions,  endeavour 
to  bring  down  our  own  passions  to  that  pitch  which 
those  about  us  can  correspond  with.  We  view  our- 
selves in  the  light  in  which  we  think  they  view  us, 
and  seek  to  suit  our  behaviour  to  what  we  think  their 
feelings  can  go  along  with.  With  an  intimate  friend, 
.acquainted  with  every  circumstance  of  our  situation, 
we  can,  in  some  measure,  give  way  to  our  grief,  but 
are  more  calm  than  when  by  ourselves.  Before  a 
common  acquaintance,  we  assume  a  greater  sedate- 
ness.  Before  a  mixed  assembly,  we  affect  a  still 
more  considerable  degree  of  composure.  Thus,  by 
the  company  of  our  friends  at.  first,  and  afterwards, 
by  mingling  with  society,  we  come  to  suit  our  de- 
portment to  what  we  think  they  will  approve  of ;  we 
gradually  abate  the  violence  of  our  passion,  and  re- 
store our  mind  to  its  wonted  tranquillity. 


13S  THE    MIRROR. 


No.  XXVIII.     SATURDAY,  MAY  1. 

Currit  ad  Indos 
Pauperiem  fugiens.  Hor. 

"  AND  did  you  not  blush  for  our  countrymen  ?" 
said  Mr.  Umphraville  to  Colonel  Plumb,  as  the  latter 
was  describing  the  sack  of  an  Indian  city,  and  the 
plunder  of  its  miserable  inhabitants,  with  the  death 
of  a  Raja  who  had  gallantly  defended  it. 

"  Not  at  all,  Sir,"  answered  the  Colonel  coolly  ; 
*  our  countrymen  did  no  more  than  their  duty  ;  and, 
"  were  we  to  decline  performing  it  on  such  ccca- 
u  sions,  we  should  be  of  little  service  to  our  country 
"  in  India." 

Mr.  Umphraville  made  no  answer  to  this  defence  ; 
but  a  silent  indignation,  which  sat  upon  his  counte- 
nance, implied  a  stronger  disapprobation  of  it  than 
the  most  laboured  reply  he  could  have  offered. 

For  the  same  reason  which  induced  him  to  avoid 
any  farther  discussion  of  the  subject,  my  friend  en- 
deavoured to  give  the  conversation  a  different  turn. 
He  led  the  Colonel  into  a  description  of  the  country 
of  India  ;  and,  as  that  gentleman  described  in  very 
lively  colours  the  beauty  of  its  appearance,  the  num- 
ber of  its  people,  and  the  variety  and  richness  of  its 
productions,  Mr.  Umphraville  listened  to  this  part  of 
his  discourse  with  an  uncommon  degree  of  pleasure 
and  attention. 

But,  after  the  Colonel's  departure,  (for  this  con- 
yersation  happened  during  one  of  my  excursions  to 
Mr.  Umphraville's,  where  Colonel  Plumb  had  been 
on  a  visit,)  the  former  part  of  the  conversation  re- 
curred immediately  to  my  friend's  memory,  and  pro- 
duced the  following  reflections. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  he,  "  a  more  mortifying  proof 
"  of  human  weakness,  than  that  power  which  situa- 


THE    MIRROR.  139 

«  tion  and   habit  acquire  over  principle  and  feeling, 
"  even  in  men  of  the  best  natural  dispositions. 

"  The  gentleman  who  has  just  left  us,  has  derived 
"  from  nature  a  more  than  ordinary  degree  of  good 
"  sense.  Nor  does  she  seem  to  have  been  less  libe- 
"  ral  to  him  in  the  affections  of  the  heart  than  in  the 
"  powers  of  the  understanding. 

"  Since  his  return  to  this  country,  Colonel  Plumb 
"  has  acted  the  part  of  an  affectionate  and  generous 
"  relation,  of  an  attentive  and  useful  friend  ;  he  has 
"  been  an  indulgent  landlord,  a  patron  of  the  indus- 
"  trious,  and  a  support  to  the  indigent.  In  a  word, 
"  he  has  proved  a  worthy  and  useful  member  of  so- 
"  ciety,  on  whom  fortune  seems  not  to  have  mis- 
"  placed  her  favours. 

"  Yet,  with  all  the  excellent  dispositions  of  which 
"  these  are  proofs. — placed  as  a  soldier  of  fortune  in 
"  India  ;  inflamed  with  the  ambition  of  amassing 
"  wealth  ;  corrupted  by  the  contagious  example  of 
"  others  governed  by  the  same  passion,  and  engaged 
"  in  the  same  pursuit ;  Colonel  Plumb  appears  to 
«  have  been  little  under  the  influence  either  of  jus- 
"  tice  or  humanity  ;  he  seems  to  have  viewed  the 
"  unhappy  people  of  that  country  merely  as  the  in- 
"  struments,  which,  in  one  way  or  other,  were  to 
"  furnish  himself  and  his  countrymen  with  that  wealth 
w  they  had  gone  so  far  in  quest  of. 

"  If  these  circumstances  could  operate  so  strongly 
*  on  such  a  man  as  Colonel  Plumb,  we  have  little 
«  reason  to  wonder  that  they  should  have  carried 
"  others  of  our  countrymen  to  still  more  lamentable 
«  excesses  ;  that  they  should  have  filled  that  unhap- 
u  py  country  with  scenes  of  misery  and  oppression, 
"  of  which  the  recital  fills  us  with  equal  shame  and 
«  indignation.  Yet  such  examples  as  that. of  the 
"  Colonel  should  perhaps  dispose  us,  in  place  of  vio- 
"  lently  declaiming  against  the  conduct  of  individuals, 
44  to  investigate  the  causes  by  which  it  is  produced. 
k  2. 


14d  THE    MIRROR. 

"  The  conquests  of  a  commercial  people,  have 
'•  always,  I  believe,  proved  uncommonly  destruc- 
"  tive  ;  and  this  might  naturally  have  been  expected 
"  of  those  made  by  our  countrymen  in  India,  under 
"  the  direction  of  a  mercantile  society,  conducted  by 
"  its  members  in  a  distant  country,  in  a  climate  fatal 
"  to  European  constitutions,  which  they  visit  only  for 
"  the  purpose  of  suddenly  amassing  riches,  and  from 
"  which  they  are  anxious  to  return  as  soon  as  that 
"  purpose  is  accomplished. 

"  How  far  such  a  company,  whose  original  connec- 
"  tion  with  India  was  merely  the  prosecution  of  their 
"  private  commerce,  should  have  ever  been  allowed 
w  to  assume,  and  should  still  continue  to  possess,  the 
"  unnatural  character  of  sovereigns  and  conquerors, 
"  and  to  conduct  the  government  of  a  great  empire, 
"  is  a  point  which  may,  perhaps,  merit  the  attention 
"  of  the  legislature  as  much  as  many  of  the  more 
"  minute  inquiries  in  which  they  have  of  late  been 
"  engaged. 

"  I  have  often  thought  how  much  our  superior 
"  knowledge  in  the  art  of  government  might  enable 
"  us  to  change  the  condition  of  that  unfortunate  coun- 
"  try  for  the  better.     I  have  pleased  myself  with 

*  fondly  picturing  out  the  progress  of  such  a  plan  ; 
u  with  fancying  I  saw  the  followers  of  Mahomet  lay 
u  aside  their  ferocity  and  ambition  ;  the  peaceful  di- 
"  sciples  of  Brahma,  happy  in  the  security  of  a  good 

*  government,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  those  inno- 
"  cent  and  simple  manners  which  mark  the  influence 
«  of  a  fruitful  climate,  and  a  beneficent  religion. — 
"  But,  alas  !"  continued  Mr.  Umphraville,  with  a 
sigh,  "  such  reformations  are  more  easily  effected 
"  by  me  in  my  elbow-chair,  than  by  those  who  con- 
«  duct  the  great  and  complicated  machine  of  govern- 

*  ment. 

«  I  wish,"  added  he,  "  it  may  be  only  the  contract- 
«  ed  yiew  of  things  natural  to  a  retired  old  man> 


THE    MIRROR.  141 

"  which  leads   me  to  fear  that,  in  this  country,  the 

"  period  of  such  reformations  is  nearly  past ;  when 

"  I  observe,  that  almoat  all  men  regulate  their  con- 

"  duct,  and  form  the  minds  of  the  rising  generation 

"  by  this  maxim, 

Quxrenda  pecunia  prima  est, 
Virtus  post  Nummos  ; 

"  I  cannot  but  apprehend,  from  the  prevalence  of  so 
"  mean  and  so  corrupt  a  principle,  the  same  na- 
M  tional  corruption  which  the  Roman  poet  ascribes 
"  to  it. 

"  In  the  lower  ranks,  the  desire  of  gain,  as  it  is  the 
"  source  of  industry ,  may  be  held  equally  conducive  to 
"  private  happiness  and  public  prosperity  ;  but  those 
u  who,  by  birth  or  education,  are  destined  for  nobler 
"  pursuits,  should  be  actuated  by  more  generous  pas- 
"  sions.  If  from  luxury,  and  the  love  of  vain  expence, 
"  they  also  shall  give  way  to  this  desire  of  wealth  ; 
"  if  it  shall  extinguish  the  sentiments  of  public  vir- 
"  tue,  and  the  passion  for  true  glory,  natural  to  that 
"  order  of  the  state  ;  the  spring  of  private  and  of 
u  national  honour  must  have  lost  its  force,  and  there 
"  will  remain  nothing  to  withstand  the  general  cor- 
"  ruption  of  manners,  and  the  public  disorder  and 
"  debility  which  are  its  inseparable  attendants.  If 
"  our  country  has  not  already  reached  this  point  of 
"  degeneracy,  she  seems,  at  least,  as  far  as  a  spec- 
"  tator  of  her  manners  can  judge,  to  be  too  fast  ap- 
u  proaching  it." 

Somewhat  in  this  manner  did  Mr.  Umphraville  ex- 
press himself.  Living  retired  in  the  country,  con- 
versing with  few  arid  ignorant  of  the  opinions  of  th« 
many  ;  attached  to  ideas  of  family,  and  not  very  fond 
of  the  mercantile  interest ;  disposed  to  give  praise  to 
former  times,  and  not  to  think  highly  of  the  present ; 
in  his  apprehension  of  facts  he  is  often  mistaken,  and 


142  THE    MIRROR. 

the  conclusions  he  draws  from  those  facts  are  often 
erroneous.  In  the  present  instance,  the  view  which 
I  have  presented  of  his  opinions,  may  throw  further 
light  upon  his  character  ;  it  gives  a  striking  picture 
both  of  the  candour  of  his  mind,  and  of  the  genero- 
sity of  his  sentiments.  His  opinions,  though  errone- 
ous, may  be  useful  ;  they  may  remind  those,  who, 
endued,  like  Colonel  Plumb,  with  good  dispositions, 
are  in  danger  of  being  seduced  by  circumstances  and 
situation,  that  our  own  interest  or  ambition  is  never 
to  be  pursued  but  in  consistency  with  the  sacred  obli- 
gations of  justice,  humanity,  and  benevolence  ;  and 
they  may  afford  a  very  pleasing  source  of  reflection 
to  others,  who,  in  trying  situations,  have  maintained 
their  virtue  and  their  character  untainted. 
O 


No.  XXIX.     TUESDAY,  MAY  4. 

Conciliat  animos  comitas  affabilitasque  sermonis.  Ci«, 

POLITENESS,  or  the  external  shew  of  humanity, 
has  been  strongly  recommended  by  some,  and  has 
been  treated  with  excessive  ridicule  by  others.  It 
has  sometimes  been  represented,  very  improperly,  as 
constituting  the  sum  of  merit :  and  thus  affectation 
and  grimace  have  been  substituted  in  place  of  virtue. 
There  are,  on  the  other  hand,  persons  who  cover 
their  own  rudeness,  and  justify  gross  rusticity,  by 
calling  their  conduct  honest  bluntness,  and  by  defam- 
ing complacent  manners,  as  fawning  or  hypocritical. 
Shakespeare,  in  his  King  Lear,  sketches  this  cha- 
racter with  his  usual  ability. 


THE    MIRROR.  143 

This  is  some  fellow 
Who  having  been  prais'd  for  bluntness,  doth  affect 
A  saucy  roughness,  and  constrains  the  garb 
Quite  from  his  nature.     He  can't  flatter,  he, 
An  honest  mind  and  plain,  he  must  speak  truth, 
And  they  will  take  it  so  ;  if  not,  he's  plain. 

To  extol  polished  external  manners  as  constituting 
the  whole  duty  of  man,  or  declaim  against  them  as 
utterly  inconsistent  with  truth,  and  the  respect  we 
owe  to  ourselves,  are  extremes  equally  to  be  avoided. 
Let  no  one  believe  that  the  show  of  humanity  is  equal 
to  the  reality  :  nor  let  any  one,  from  the  desire  of 
pleasing,  depart  from  the  line  of  truth,  or  stoop 
to  mean  condescension.  But  to  presume  favourably 
of  all  men  ;  to  consider  them  as  worthy  of  our  re- 
gard till  we  have  evidence  of  the  contrary  ;  to  be  in- 
clined to  render  them  services  ;  and  to  entertain  con- 
fidence in  their  inclinations  to  follow  a  similar  con- 
duct ;  constitute  a  temper,  which  every  man,  for  his 
own  peace,  and  for  the  peace  of  society,  ought  to 
improve  and  exhibit.  Now,  this  is  the  temper  essen- 
tial to  polished  manners  ;  and  the  external  show  of 
civilities  is  a  banner  held  forth,  announcing  to  all  men, 
that  we  hold  them  in  due  respect,  and  are  disposed 
to  oblige  them.  Besides,  it  will  often  occur,  that  we 
may  have  the  strongest  conviction  of  worth  in  another 
person  ;  that  we  may  be  disposed,  from  gratitude  or 
esteem,  to  render  him  suitable  services  ;  and  yet  may 
have  no  opportunity  of  testifying,  by  those  actions, 
which  are  their  genuine  expressions,  either  that  con- 
viction, or  that  disposition.  Hence  external  courte- 
sies and  civilities  are  substituted,  with  great  proprie- 
ty, as  signs  and  representatives  of  those  actions  which 
we  are  desirous,  and  have  not  the  power  of  perform- 
ing. They  are  to  be  held  as  pledges  of  our  esteem 
and  affection. 

"  But  the  man  of  courtly  manners  often  puts  on  a 
"  placid  and  smiling  semblance,  while  his  heart  ran- 


144  THE    MIRROR. 

u  kles  with  malignant  passion." — When  this  is  dono 
with  an  intention  to  deceive  or  ensnare  mankind,  the 
conduct  is  perfidious,  and  ought  to  be  branded  with 
infamy.  In  that  case,  the  law  of  courtesy  is  "  more 
"  honoured  in  the  breach  than  in  the  observance." 
But  there  may  be  another  situation,  when  the  show 
of  courtesy  assumed,  while  the  heart  is  ill  at  ease 
moved  by  disagreeable  unkindly  feelings,  would  be 
unjustly  censured. — From  a  feeble  constitution  of 
body,  bad  health,  or  some  untoward  accident  or  dis- 
appointment, you  lose  your  wonted  serenity.  Influ- 
enced by  your  present  humour,  even  to  those  who 
have  no  concern  in  the  accident  that  hath  befallen  you, 
and  who  would  really  be  inclined  to  relieve  you  from 
your  uneasiness,  you  become  reserved  and  splenetic. 
You  know  the  impropriety  of  such  a  demeanour,  and 
endeavour  to  beget  in  your  bosom  a  very  different 
disposition.  Your  passions,  however,  are  stubborn  ; 
images  of  wrong  and  of  disappointment  have  taken 
strong  hold  of  your  fancy  ;  and  your  present  disa- 
greeable and  painful  state  of  mind  cannot  easily  be  re- 
moved. Meanwhile,  however,  you  disguise  the  ap- 
pearance ;  you  are  careful  to  let  no  fretful  expression 
be  uttered,  nor  any  malignant  thought  lour  in  your 
aspect ;  you  perform  external  acts  of  civility,  and  as- 
sume the  tones  and  the  language  of  the  most  perfect 
composure.  You  thus  war  with  your  own  spirit  ; 
and,  by  force  of  commanding  the  external  symp- 
toms, you  will  gain  a  complete  victory.  You  will 
actually  establish  in  your  mind  that  good  humour  and 
humanity,  which,  a  little  before,  were  only  yours  in 
appearance.  Now,  in  this  discipline,  there  is  nothing 
criminal. — In  this  discipline,  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
merit.  It  will  not  only  correct  and  alter  our  present 
humours,  but  may  influence  our  habits  and  dispo- 
sitions. 

A  contrary  practice   may  be  attended,  if  not  with 
dangerous,  at  least  with  disagreeable  consequences. 


THE    MIRROR.  145 

Sir  Gregory  Blunt  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  re- 
spectable family.  His  fortune  and  his  ancestry  unti- 
tled him,  as  he  and  his  friends  apprehended,  to  appear 
in  any  shape  that  he  pleased.  He  owed,  and  would 
owe,  no  man  a  shilling  ;  but  other  men  might  be  in- 
debted to  him.  He  received  from  nature,  and  still 
possesses,  good  abilities,  and  humane  dispositions, 
lie  is  a  man,  too,  of  inflexible  honour.  Yet  Sir  Gre- 
gory has  an  unbending  cast  of  mind,  that  cannot  ea- 
sily be  fashioned  into  soft  compliance  and  condescen- 
sion. He  never,  even  at  an  early  period,  had  any 
pretensions  to  winning  ways,  or  agreeable  assiduities. 
Nor  had  he  any  talent  for  acquiring  personal  graces 
and  accomplishments.  In  every  thing  that  confers 
the  easy  and  engaging  air  of  a  gentleman,  he  was 
excelled  by  his  companions.  Sir  Gregory  had  sense 
enough  to  perceive  his  own  incapacity  ;  vanity  enough 
to  be  hurt  with  the  preferences  shewn  to  young  men 
less  able  or  honest,  but  more  complaisant  than  him- 
self ;  and  pride  enough  to  cast  away  all  pretensions 
to  that  smoothness  of  demeanour  in  which  he  could 
never  excel.  Thus,  he  assumed  a  bluntness  and 
roughness  of  manners,  better  suited  to  the  natural 
cast  of  his  temper.  He  would  be  plain  ;  he  hated 
all  your  smiling  and  fawning  attentions  ;  he  would 
speak  what  he  thought ;  he  would  'praise  no  man, 
even  though  he  thought  him  deserving,  because  he 
scorned  to  appear  a  flatterer  ;  and  he  would  promise 
no  man  good  offices,  not  even  though  he  meant  to 
perform  them,  because  he  abhorred  ostentation.  Ac- 
cordingly, in  his  address,  he  is  often  abrupt,  with  an 
approach  to  rudeness,  which,  if  it  does  not  offend, 
disconcerts  :  and  he  will  not  return  a  civility,  because 
he  is  not  in  the  humour.  He  thus  indulges  a  pro- 
pensity which  he  ought  to  have  corrected  ;  and,  slave 
to  a  surly  vanity,  he  thinks  he  acts  upon  principle. 

Now,  this  habit  not  only  renders  him  disagreeable 
to  persons  of  polished  manners,  but  may  be  attended 


H6  THE     MIRROR. 

with  consequences  of  a  more  serious  nature.  Sir 
Gregory  does  not  perceive,  that,  while  he  thinks  he 
is  plain,  he  only  affects  to  be  plain  ;  that  he  often  sti- 
fles a  kindly  feeling,  for  fear  of  seeming  complaisant; 
that  "  he  constrains  the  garb  quite  from  his  nature  ;" 
and,  that  he  disguises  his  appearance  as  much  at  least 
by  excessive  bluntness,  as  he  would  by  shewing  some 
complaisance.  Thus,  he  is  hardly  intitled,  notwith- 
standing his  pretensions,  to  the  praise  even  of  honest 
plainness.  Besides,  his  character,  in  other  respects, 
is  so  eminent,  and  his  rank  so  distinguished,  that,  of 
course,  he  has  many  admirers  :  and  thus  all  the 
young  men  of  his  neighbourhood  are  becoming  as 
boisterous  and  as  rough  as  himself.  Even  some  of 
his  female  acquaintance  are  likely  to  suffer  by  the  con- 
tagion of  his  example.  Their  desire  of  pleasing  has 
taken  an  improper  direction  ;  they  seem  less  studious 
of  those  delicate  proprieties  and  observances  so  es- 
sential to  female  excellence  ;  they  also  will  not  ap- 
pear otherwise  than  what  they  are  ;  and  thus  they 
will  not  only  appear,  but  become  a  great  deal  worse. 
For,  as  the  shew  of  humanity  and  good  humour  may, 
in  some  instances,  promote  a  gentle  temper,  and  ren- 
der us  good  humoured  ;  so  the  affectation  and  shew 
of  honest  plainness  may  lead  us  to  be  plain  without 
honesty,  and  sincere  without  good  intention.  Those 
who  affect  timidity  may,  in  time,  become  cowards  ; 
and  those  who  affect  roughness  may,  in  time,  grow 
inhuman. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 

Sir, 

I  HAVE  long  had  a  tendre  for  a  young  lady,  who 
is  very  beautiful,  but  a  little  capricious.  1  think  my- 
self unfortunate  enough  not  to  be  in  her  good  graces  ; 
but  some  of  my  friends  tell  me  I  am  a  simpleton,  and 
don't  understand  her.     Pray  be  so  kind  as  to  inform 


THE   MIRROR.  147 

me,  Mr.  Mirror,  what  sort  of  rudeness  amounts  to 
encouragement.  When  a  lady  calls  a  man  imper- 
tinent, does  she  wish  him  to  be  somewhat  more  as- 
suming ?  When  she  never  looks  his  way,  may  he 
reckon  himself  a  favourite  ?  Or,  if  she  tells  every 
body,  that  Mr.  Such-a-one  is  her  aversion,  is  Mr. 
Such-a-one  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she  is  down- 
right fond  of  him  ? 

Yours,  respectfully, 

Modestus. 
V 


No.  XXX.     SATURDAY,  MAY  8. 

IT  has  sometimes  been  a  matter  of  speculation, 
whether  or  not  there  be  a  sex  in  the  soul  ;  that  there 
is  one  in  manners,  I  never  heard  disputed  ;  the  same 
applause  which  we  involuntary  bestow  upon  honour, 
courage,  and  spirit,  in  men,  we  as  naturally  confer 
upon  chastity,  modesty,  and  gentleness,  in  women. 

It  was  formerly  one  of  those  national  boasts  which 
are  always  allowable,  and  sometimes  useful,  that  the 
ladies  of  Scotland  possessed  a  purity  of  conduct,  and 
delicacy  of  manners,  beyond  those  of  most  other  coun- 
tries. Free  from  the  bad  effects  of  overgrown  for- 
tunes, and  of  the  dissipated  society  of  an  overgrown 
capital,  their  beauty  was  natural,  and  their  minds 
were  uncorrupted. 

Though  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  this  is  still 
the  case,  in  general ;  yet,  from  my  own  observation, 
and  the  complaints  of  several  correspondents,  I  am 
sorry  to  be  obliged  to  conclude,  that  there  begins  to 
appear  among  us  a  very  different  style  of  manners. 
Perhaps  our  frequent  communication  with  the  metro- 
polis of  our  siste'r  kingdom  is  one  great  cause  of  this. 

VOL.  i.  o 


148  THE    MIRROR. 

Formerly  a  London  journey  was  attended  with  some 
difficulty  and  danger,  and  posting  thither  was  an  at- 
chievement  as  masculine  as  a  fox-chace.  Now  the 
goodness  of  the  roads,  and  the  convenience  of  the 
vehicles,  render  it  a  matter  of  only  a  few  days  mode- 
rate exercise  for  a  lady  ;  "  Facilis  descensus  Averni :" 
cur  wives  and  daughters  are  carried  thither  to  see 
the  world  ;  and  we  are  not  to  wonder  if  some  of  them 
bring  back  only  that  knowledge  of  it  which  the  most 
ignorant  can  acquire,  and  the  most  forgetful  retain. 
That  knowledge  is  communicated,  to  a  certain  circle, 
on  their  return  :  the  imitation  is  as  rapid  as  it  is  easy  ; 
they  emulate  the  English,  who  before  have  copied  the 
French  ;  the  dress,  the  phrase,  and  the  morale  of 
Paris,  is  transplanted  first  to  London,  and  thence  to 
Edinburgh  ;  and  even  the  sequestered  regions  of  the 
country  are  sometimes  visited  in  this  northern  pro- 
gress of  politeness. 

And  here  I  cannot  help  observing,  that  the  imita- 
tion is  often  so  clumsy,  as  to  leave  out  all  the  agree- 
able, and  retain  all  the  offensive.  In  the  translation 
of  the  manners,  as  in  the  translation  of  the  language 
of  our  neighbours,  we  are  apt  to  lose  the  finesses,  the 
"  petits  agrements,"  which  (I  talk  like  a  man  of  the 
world)  give  zest  and  value  to  the  whole. 

It  will  be  said,  perhaps,  that  there  is  often  a  levity 
of  behaviour  without  any  criminality  of  conduct ;  that 
the  lady  who  talks  always  loud,  and  sometimes  free, 
goes  much  abroad,  or  keeps  a  croud  of  company  at 
home,  rattles  in  a  public  place  with  a  circle  ol  young 
fellows,  or  flirts  in  a  corner  with  a  single  one  ;  does 
all  this  without  the  smallest  bad  intention,  merely  as 
she  puts  on  a  cap,  and  sticks  it  with  feathers,  because 
she  has  seen  it  done  by  others  whose  rank  and  fashion 
intitle  them  to  her  imitation.  Now,  granting  that 
most  of  those  ladies  have  all  the  purity  of  heart  that 
is  contended  for,  are  there  no  disagreeable  conse- 
quences, I  would  ask,  from  the    appearance  of  evil, 


THE    MIRROR.  149 

exclusive  of  its  reality  ?  Decorum  is  at  least  the  en- 
sign, if  not  the  outguard  of  virtue  :  the  want  of  it, 
if  it  does  not  weaken  the  garrison,  will,  at  least,  em- 
bolden the  assailants  ;  and  a  woman's  virtue  is  of  so 
delicate  a  nature,  that,  to  be  impregnable  is  not 
enough,  without  the  reputation  of  being  so. 

But,  though  female  virtue,  in  the  singular,  means 
chastity,  there  are  many  other  endowments,  without 
which  a  woman's  character  is  reproachable,  though 
it  is  not  infamous.  The  mild  demeanour,  the  modest 
deportment,  are  valued  not  only  as  they  denote  inter- 
nal purity  and  innocence,  but  as  forming  in  them- 
selves the  most  amiable  and  engaging  part  of  the 
female  character.  There  was,  of  old,  a  stiff  con- 
strained manner,  which  the  moderns  finding  unplea- 
sant, agreed  to  explode,  and,  in  the  common  rage  of 
reformation,  substituted  the  very  opposite  extreme 
in  its  stead  ;  to  banish  preciseness,  they  called  in 
levity,  and  ceremony  gave  way  to  something  like 
rudeness.  But  fashion  may  alter  the  form,  not  the 
essence  of  things  ;  and,  though  we  may  lend  our 
laugh,  or  even  our  applause,  to  the  woman  whose 
figure  and  conversation  comes  flying  out  upon  us  in 
this  fashionable  forwardness  of  manner  ;  yet,  I  be- 
lieve, there  is  scarce  a  votary  of  the  mode  who  would 
Wish  his  sister,  his  wife,  or  even  his  mistress,  (I  use 
the  word  in  its  modest  sense,)  to  possess  it. 

I  have  hitherto  pointed  my  observations  chiefly  at 
the  appearance  of  our  ladies  to  the  world,  which, 
besides  its  being  more  immediately  the  object  of  pub- 
lic censorship,  a  variety  of  strictures  lately  sent  me 
by  my  correspondents  naturally  led  me  to  consider. 
I  am  afraid,  however,  the  same  innovation  begins  to 
appear  in  our  domestic,  as  in  our  public  life,  that 
the  case  of  my  friend  Mr.  Homespun,  is  far  from 
being  singular.  Some  of  those  whose  rank  and  sta- 
tion are  such  as  to  enforce  example,  and  regulate 
opinion,  think  it  an  honourable  distinction  to  be  able 


15©  THE    MIRROR. 

to  lead,  from  the  sober  track  which  the  maxims  of 
their  mothers  and  grandmothers  had  marked  out  for 
them,  such  young  ladies  as  chance,  relationship,  or 
neighbourhood,  has  placed  within  the  reach  of  their 
influence.  The  state  of  diffidence  and  dependence, 
in  which  a  young  woman  used  to  find  herself  happy 
under  the  protection  of  her  parents  or  guardians,  they 
teach  their  pupils  to  consider  as  incompatible  with 
sense  or  spirit.  With  them  obedience  and  subordi- 
nation are  terms  of  contempt ;  even  the  natural  re- 
straints of  time  are  disregarded  ;  childhood  is  imma- 
turely  forced  into  youth,  and  youth  assumes  the  con- 
fidence and  self-government  of  age  ;  domestic  duties 
are  held  to  be  slavish,  and  domestic  enjoyments  in- 
sipid. 

There  is  an  appearance  of  brilliancy  in  the  plea- 
sures of  high  life  and  fashion,  which  naturally  daz- 
zles and  seduces  the  young  and  inexperienced.  But, 
let  them  not  believe  that  the  scale  of  fortune  is  the 
standard  of  happiness,  or  the  whirl  of  pleasure  which 
their  patronesses  describe  productive  of  the  satisfac- 
tion which  they  affect  to  enjoy  in  it.  Could  they  trace 
its  course  through  a  month,  a  week,  or  a  day,  of 
that  life  which  they  enjoy,  they  will  find  it  commonly 
expire  in  langour,  or  end  in  disappointment.  They 
would  see  the  daughters  of  fashion  in  a  state  the  most 
painful  of  any,  obliged  to  cover  hatred  with  the  smile 
of  friendship,  and  anguish  with  the  appearance  of 
gaiety  ;  they  would  see  the  mistress  of  the  feast,  or 
the  directress  of  the  rout,  at  the  table,  or  in  the 
drawing-room,  in  the  very  scene  of  her  pride,  torn 

with  those  jarring  passions  which but  I  will  not 

talk  like  a  moralist which  make  duchesses  mean, 

and  the  finest  women  in  the  world  ugly.  I  do  them 
no  injustice ;  for  I  state  this  at  the  time  of  possession ; 
its  value  in  reflection  I  forbear  to  estimate. 

If  I  dared  to  contrast  this  with  a  picture  of  do- 
mestic pleasure  :  were  I  to  exhibit  a  family  virtuous 


THE  MIRROR.  1  5  1 

and  happy,  where  affection  takes  place  of  duty,  and 
obedience  is  enjoyed,  not  exacted  ;  where  the  happi- 
ness of  every  individual  is  reflected  upon  the  society, 
and  a  certain  tender  solicitude  about  each  other,  gives 
a  more  delicate  sense  of  pleasure  than  any  enjoyment 
merely  selfish  can  produce  ;  could  I  paint  them  in 
their  little  circles  of  business  or  of  amusement,  of 
sentiment,  or  of  gaiety, — I  am  persuaded  the  scene 
would  be  too  venerable  for  the  most  irreverent  to  de- 
ride, and  its  happiness  too  apparent  for  the  most  dis- 
sipated to  deny.  Yet  to  be  the  child  or  mother  of 
such  a  family,  is  often  foregone  for  the  miserable 
vanity  of  aping  some  woman,  weak  as  she  is  worth- 
less, despised  in  the  midst  of  flattery,  and  wretched 
in  the  very  centre  of  dissipation. 

I  have  limited  this  remonstrance  to  motives  merely 
temporal,  because  I  am  informed,  some  of  our  high- 
bred females  deny  the  reality  of  any  other.  This 
refinement  of  infidelity  is  one  of  those  new  acquire- 
ments which,  till  of  late,  were  altogether  unknown 
to  the  ladies  of  this  country,  and  which  I  hope  very, 
very  few  of  them  are  yet  possessed  of.  I  mean  not 
to  dispute  the  solidity  of  their  system,  as  I  am  per- 
suaded they  have  studied  the  subject  deeply,  and  un- 
der very  able  and  learned  masters.  1  would  only 
take  the  liberty  of  hinting  the  purpose  for  which,  I 
have  been  told,  by  some  fashionable  men,  such  doc- 
trines have  frequently  been  taught.  It  seems,  it  is 
understood  by  the  younger  class  of  our  philosophers, 
that  a  woman  never  thinks  herself  quite  alone,  till 
she  has  put  God  out  of  the  way,  as  well  as  her  hus- 
band. 

V 


•  s 


152  THE    MIRROR. 

No.  XXXI.     TUESDAY,  MAY  11. 

Fcrtemque  Gyan,  fortemque  Cleanthura.  Viug. 

THERE  is  hardly  any  species  of  writing  more 
difficult  than  that  of  drawing  characters  ;  and  hence 
it  is  that  so  few  authors  have  excelled  in  it.  Among 
those  writers  who  have  confined  themselves  merely 
to  this  sort  of  composition,  Theophrastus  holds  the 
first  place  among  the  ancients,  and  La  Bruyer  among 
the  moderns.  But,  beside  those  who  have  profes- 
sedly confined  themselves  to  the  delineation  of  cha- 
racter, every  historian  who  relates  events,  and  who 
describes  the  disposition  and  qualities  of  the  persons 
engaged  in  them,  is  to  be  considered  as  a  writer  of 
characters. 

There  are  two  methods  by  which  a  character  may 
be  delineated,  and  different  authors  have,  more  or 
less,  adopted  the  one  or  the  other.  A  character  may 
either  be  given  by  describing  the  internal  feelings  of 
the  mind,  and  by  relating  the  qualities  with  which 
the  person  is  endowed  ;  or,  without  mentioning  in 
general  the  internal  qualities  which  he  possesses,  an 
account  may  be  given  of  his  external  conduct,  of  his 
behaviour  on  this  or  that  occasion,  and  how  he  was 
affected  by  this  or  that  event. 

An  author  who  draws  characters  in  the  first  man- 
ner, employs  those  words  that  denote  the  general 
qualities  of  the  mind  ;  and  by  means  of  these  he 
gives  a  description  and  view  of  the  character.  He 
passes  over  the  particular  circumstances  of  behaviour 
and  conduct  which  lead  to  the  general  conclusion 
with  regard  to  the  character,  and  gives  the  conclu- 
sion itself. 

But  an  author  who  draws  characters  in  the  other 
manner  above  alluded  to,  instead  of  giving  the  gene- 
ral conclusion  deduced  from  the  observation  of  parti- 


THE     MIRROR.  155 

cular  circumstances  of  conduct,  gives  a  view  of  the 
particulars  themselves,  and  of  the  external  conduct 
of  the  person  whose  character  he  wishes  to  repre- 
sent, leaving  his  readers  to  form  their  own  conclu- 
sion from  that  view  which  he  has  given.  Of  the  two 
authors  I  have  mentioned,  each  excels  in  one  of  those 
opposite  manners.  In  every  instance  I  can  recollect, 
excepting  the  extravagant  picture  of  the  absent  man, 
La  Bruyer  lays  before  his  readers  the  internal  feel 
ings  of  the  character  he  wishes  to  represent  ;  while 
Theophrastus  gives  the  action  which  the  internal  feel- 
ings produce. 

Of  these  different  modes  of  delineating  characters, 
each  has  its  peculiar  advantages.  The  best  method 
of  giving  a  full  and  comprehensive  view  of  the  dif- 
ferent parts  of  a  character,  may  be  by  a  general  enu- 
meration of  the  qualities  of  mind  with  which  the 
person  is  endowed.  At  the  same  time,  however,  it 
is,  perhaps,  impossible,  to  mark  the  nice  and  delicate 
shades  of  character,  without  bringing  the  image 
more  fully  before  the  eye,  and  placing  the  person  in 
that  situation  which  calls  him  forth  into  action. 

In  these  two  different  manners,  there  are  faults  into 
which  authors,  following  the  one  or  the  other,  are  apt 
to  fall,  and  which  they  should  studiously  endeavour 
to  avoid.  An  author  who  gives  the  internal  qualities 
of  the  character,  should  guard  against  being  too  ge- 
neral :  he  who  gives  views  of  the  conduct,  and  re- 
presents the  actions  themselves,  should  avoid  being 
too  particular.  When  the  internal  qualities  of  the 
mind  are  described^  they  may  be  expressed  in  such 
vague  and  general  terms,  as  to  lay  before  the  reader 
no  marked  distinguishing  feature  ;  when,  again,  in 
the  views  which  are  given  of  the  conduct,  the  detail 
is  too  particular,  the  author  is  apt  to  tire  by  becoming 
tedious,  or  to  disgust  by  being  trifling  or  familiar,  or 
by  approaching  to  vulgarity.  Some  of  our  most  ce- 
lebrated historians  have  committed  errors  of  the  first 


154  THE     MIRROR. 

f 

sort ;  when,  at  the  end  of  a  reign,  or  at  the  exit  o 
a  hero,  they  draw  the  character  of  the  ldug,  or  great 
man,  and  tell  their  readers,  that  the  person  they  are 
taking  leave  of  was  brave,  generous,  just,  humane  ; 
or  the  tyrant  they  have  been  declaiming  against,  was 
cruel,  haughty,  jealous,  deceitful;  these  general  qua- 
lities are  so  little  distinguishing,  that  they  may  be 
applied,  almost,  to  any  very  good,  or  very  bad  man, 
in  the  history.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  an  author, 
in  order  to  give  a  particular  view  of  the  person  of 
whom  he  writes,  tells  his  readers,  what  such  person 
did  before,  and  what  after  dinner ;  what  before,  and 
what  after  he  slept;  if  his  vivacity  prevent  him  from 
appearing  tedious,  he  will  at  least  be  in  danger  of 
displeasing  by  the  appearance  of  vulgarity  or  affec- 
tation. 

It  may  be  proper  here  to  observe,  that,  in  making 
a  right  choice  of  the  different  manners  in  which  a 
character  may  be  -drawn,  much  depends  upon  the 
subject,  or  design  of  the  author ;  one  method  may 
be  more  suited  to  one  kind  of  composition  than  to 
another.  Thus  the  author  who  confines  himself 
merely  to  drawing  characters,  the  historian  who 
draws  a  character  arising  only  from,  or  illustrating 
the  events  he  records,  or  the  novelist  who  delineates 
characters  by  feigned  circumstances  and  situations, 
have  each  their  several  objects,  and  different  manners 
may  be  properly  adopted  by  each  of  them.  Writers, 
such  as  Theophrastus  and  La  Bruyer,  take  for  their 
object  a  character  governed  by  some  one  pass-on, 
absorbing  all  others,  and  influencing  the  man  in  every 
thing ;  the  miser,  the  epicure,  the  drunkard,  &c. 
The  business  of  the  historian  is  more  difficult  and 
more  extensive  ;  he  takes  the  complicated  charac- 
ters in  real  life  ;  he  must  give  a  view  of  every  dis- 
tinguishing characteristic  of  the  personage,  the  good 
and  the  bad,  the  fierce  and  the  gentle,  all  the  strange 
diversities  which  life  presents. 


THE    MIRROR.  155 

Novel  writers  ought,  like  the  professed  writers  of 
character,  to  have  it  generally  in  view  to  illustrate 
some  one  distinguishing  feature  or  passion  of  the 
mind  ;  but  then  they  have  it  in  their  power,  by  the 
assistance  of  story,  and  by  inventing  circumstances 
and  situation,  to  exhibit  its  leading  features  in  every 
possible  point  of  view.  The  great  error,  indeed,  into 
which  novel  writers  commonly  fall  is,  that  they  at- 
tend more  to  the  story  and  to  the  circumstances  they 
relate,  than  to  giving  new  and  just  views  of  the  cha- 
racter of  the  person  they  present.  Their  general 
method  is  to  affix  names  to  certain  personages,  whom 
they  introduce  to  their  readers,  whom  they  lead 
through  dangers  and  distresses,  or  exhibit  in  circum- 
stances of  ridicule,  without  having  it  in  view  to  illus- 
trate any  one  predominant  or  leading  principle  of  the 
human  heart ;  without  making  their  readers  one  bit 
better  acquainted  with  the  characteristic  features  of 
those  persons  at  the  end  of  the  story  than  at  the  be- 
ginning. Hence  there  are  so  few  novels  which  give 
lasting  pleasure,  or  can  bear  to  be  perused  oftener 
than  once.  From  tke  surprize  or  interest  occasioned 
by  the  novelty  of  the  events,  they  may  carry  their 
readers  once  through  them  ;  but,  as  they  do  not  il- 
lustrate any  of  the  principles  of  the  mind,  or  give 
any  interesting  views  of  character,  they  raise  no  de- 
sire for  a  second  perusal,  and  ever  after  lie  neglected 
on  the  shelf. 

How  very  different  from  these  are  the  novels,  which, 
in  place  of  reiving  upon  the  mere  force  of  incident, 
bring  the  characters  of  their  personages  fully  before 
us,  paint  all  their  shades  and  attitudes,  and,  by  mak- 
ing us,  as  it  were,  intimately  acquainted  with  them, 
deeply  engage  our  hearts  in  every  circumstance  which 
can  affect  them  ?  This  happy  talent  of  delineating 
with  truth  and  delicacy  all  the  features  and  nice  tints 
of  human  character,  never  fails  to  delight,  and  will 
often  atone  for  many  defects.     It  is  this  which  ren- 


156  THE    MIRROR. 

ders  Richardson  so  interesting,  in  spite  of  his  im- 
measurable tediousness  :  it  is  this  which  will  render 
Fielding  ever  delightful,  notwithstanding  the  indeli- 
cate coarseness  with  which  he  too  often  offends  us. 


No.  XXXII.     SATURDAY,  MAY  15. 

HAPPINESS  has  been  compared,  by  one  of  my 
predecessors,  to  a  game  ;  and  he  has  prescribed  cer- 
tain rules  to  be  followed  by  the  players.  These,  in- 
deed, are  more  necessary  than  one  might  suppose  at 
first  sight ;  this  game,  like  most  others,  being  as  often 
lost  by  bad  play,  as  by  ill-luck.  The  circumstances  I 
am  placed  in,  some  of  which  I  communicated  to  my 
readers  in  my  introductory  paper,  make  me  often  a 
sort  of  looker-on  at  this  game  ;  and,  like  all  lookers- 
on,  I  think  I  discover  blunders  in  the  play  of  my 
neighbours,  who  frequently  lose  the  advantages  their 
fortune  lays  open  to  them. 

To  chase  the  allusion  a  little  farther,  it  is  seldom 
that  opportunities  occur  of  brilliant  strokes  or  deep 
calculation.  With  most  of  us,  the  ordinary  little 
stake  is  all  that  is  played  for ;  and  he  who  goes  on 
observing  the  common  rules  of  the  game,  and  keep- 
ing his  temper  in  the  reverses  of  it,  will  find  himself 
a  gainer  at  last.  In  plainer  language,  happiness, 
with  the  bulk  of  men,  may  be  said  to  consist  in  the 
power  of  enjoying  the  ordinary  pleasures  of  life,  and 
in  not  being  too  easily  hurt  by  the  little  disquietudes 
of  it.  There  is  a  certain  fineness  of  soul,  and  deli- 
cacy of  sentiment,  with  which  few  situations  accord, 
to  which  many  seeming  harmless  ones  give  the  great- 
est uneasiness.  The  art,  "  desipere  in  loco,"  (by 
which  I  understand  being  able  not  only  to  trifle,  upon 
occasion,  ourselves,   but  also   to  bear  the  foolery  of 


THE    MIRROR.  157 

others)  is  a  qualification  extremely  useful  for  smooth- 
ing a  man's  way  through  the  world. 

I  have  been  led  into  this  train  of  thinking,  by  some 
circumstances  in  a  visit  I  had  lately  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  from  my  friend  Mr.  Umphraville,  with 
whom  I  made  my  readers  acquaint  d  in  some  former 
numbers.  A  particular  piece  of  business  occurred, 
which  made  it  expedient  for  him  to  coma  to  town  ; 
and  though  he  was,  at  first  extremely  averse  from  the 
journey,  having  never  liked  great  towns,  and  now 
relishing  them  less  than  ever,  yet  the  remonstrances 
of  his  man  of  business,  aided  by  very  urgent  requests 
from  me,  at  length  overcame  him.  He  set  out,  there- 
fore, attended  by  his  old  family  servant  John,  whom 
I  had  not  failed  to  remember  in  my  invitation  to  his 
muster. 

At  the  first  stage  on  the  road,  John  told  me,  his 
master  looked  sad,  eat  little,  and  spoke  less.  Though 
the  landlord  ushered  in  dinner  in  person,  and  gave 
his  guest  a  very  minute  description  of  his  manner  of 
feeding  his  mutton,  Mr.  Umphraville  remained  a 
hearer  only,  and  shewed  no  inclination  to  have  him 
sit  down  and  partake  of  his  own  dishes  ;  and,  though 
he  desired  him,  indeed,  to  taste  the  wine,  of  which 
he  brought  in  a  bottle  after  dinner,  he  told  him,  at 
the  same  time,  to  let  the  ostler  know  he  should  want 
his  horses  as  soon  as  possible.  The  landlord  left 
the  room,  and  told  John,  who  was  eating  his  dinner, 
somewhat  more  deliberately,  in  the  kitchen,  that  his 
master  seemed  a  melancholy  kind  of  a  gentleman, 
not  half  so  good-humoured  as  his  neighbour  Mr. 
Jolly. 

John,  who  is  interested  both  in  the  happiness  and 
honour  of  his  master,  endeavoured  to  mend  matters 
in  the  evening,  by  introducing  the  hostess  very 
particularly  to  Mr.  Umphraville  ;  and,  indeed,  ven- 
turing to  invite  her  to  sup  with  him.  Umphra- 
ville was  too   shy,  or  too  civil,  to  decline  the  lady's 


158  THE    MIRROR. 

company,  and  John  valued  himself  on  having  pro 
cured  him  so  agreeable  a  companion His  mas- 
ter complained  to  me  since  he  came  to  town,  of  the 
oppression  of  this  landlady's  company  ;  and  declared 
his  resolution  of  not  stopping  at  the  George  on  his 
way  home. 

The  morning  after  his  arrival  at  my  house,  while 
we  were  sitting  together,  talking  of  old  stories,  and 
old  friends,  with  all  the  finer  feelings  about  us,  John 
entered,  with  a  look  of  much  satisfaction,  announ- 
cing the  name  of  Mr.  Bearskin.  This  gentleman  is 
a  first  cousin  of  Umphraville's,  who  resides  in  town, 
and  whom  he  had  not  seen  these  six  years.  He 
was  bred  a  mercer,  but  afterwards  extended  his  deal- 
ings with  his  capital,  and  has  been  concerned  in  se- 
veral great  mercantile  transactions.  While Umphra- 
ville,  with  all  his  genius,  and  all  his  accomplishments, 
was  barely  preserving  his  estate  from  ruin  at  home, 
this  man,  by  dint  of  industry  and  application,  and 
partly  from  the  want  of  genius  and  accomplishments, 
has  amassed  a  fortune  greater  than  the  richest  of  his 
cousin's  ancestors  was  ever  possessed  of.  He  holds 
Umphraville  in  some  respect,  however,  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  his  mother's  family,  from  which  he  de- 
rives all  his  gentility,  his  father  having  sprung  no- 
body knows  whence,  and  lived  nobody  knows  how, 
till  he  appeared  behind  the  counter  of  a  woollen  dra- 
per, to  whose  shop  and  business  he  succeeded. 

My  friend,  though  he  could  have  excused  his  visit 
at  this  time,  received  him  with  politeness.  He  intro- 
duced him  to  me  as  his  near  relation  :  on  which  the 
other,  who  mixes  the  flippant  civility  of  his  former 
profession  with  somewhat  of  the  monied  confidence 
of  his  present  one,  made  me  a  handsome  compli- 
ment, and  congratulated  Mr.  Umphraville  on  the 
possession  of  such  a  friend.  He  concluded,  however, 
with  a  distant  insinuation  of  his  house's  being  a  more 
natural  home  for  his  cousin  when  in  town  than  that 


THE    MIRROR.  I5t 

ef  any  other  person.  This  led  to  a  description  of 
that  house,  its  rooms  and  and  its  furniture,  in  which 
he  made  no  inconsiderable  eulogium  on  his  own  taste, 
the  taste  of  his  wife,  and  the  taste  of  the  times. 
Umphraville  blushed,  bit  his  lips,  complained  of  the 
heat  of  the  room,  changed  his  seat,  in  short  suffered 
torture  all  the  way  from  the  cellar  to  the  garret. 

Mr.  Bearskin  closed  this  description  of  his  house 
with  an  expression  of  his  and  his  wife's  earnest  de- 
sire to  see  their  cousin  there.  Umphraville  declared 
his  intention  of  calling  to  enquire  after  Mi's.  Bear- 
skin and  the  young  folks,  mentioning,  at  the  same 
time,  the  shortness  of  his  proposed  stay  in  town,  and 
the  hurry  his  business  would  necessarily  keep  him  in 
while  he  remained.  But  this  declaration  by  no 
means  satisfied  his  kinsman  ;  he  insisted  on  his 
spending  a  day  with  them  so  warmly,  that  the  other 
was  at  last  overcome,  and  the  third  day  after  was 
fixed  on  for  that  purpose,  which  Mr.  Bearskin  in- 
formed us  would  be  the  more  agreeable  to  all  parties, 
^as  he  should  then  have  an  opportunity  of  introducing 
us  to  his  1  oncion  correspondent,  a  man  of  great  for- 
tune, who  had  just  arrived  here  on  a  jaunt  to  see  the 
country,  and  had  promised  him  the  favour  of  eating 
a  bit  of  mutton  with  him  on  that  day.  I  would  have 
excused  myself  from  being  of  the  party  ;  but  not 
having,  any  more  than  Umphraville,  a  talent  at  refu- 
sal, was  like  him,  overpowered  by  the  solicitations  of 
his  cousin. 

The  history  of  that  dinner  I  may  possibly  give  my 
reader-  hereafter,  in  a  separate  paper,  a  dinner,  now- 
a-day:  being  a  matter,  of  consequence,  and  not  to  be 
mana;  in  an  episode.  The  time  between  was  de- 
voted V.  Umphraville  to  business,  in  which  he 
was  pi .  nmonly  to  ask  my  advice,  and  to  com- 
muuicate  -inions.  The  last  I  found  generally 
unfavourable  of  men  and  things;  my  friend 
carries  the  "  pris  :a  fides"  too  much  about  with  hint 

vol.  i,  p 


160  THE   MIRROR. 

to  be  perfectly  pleased  in  his  dealings  with  people  of 
business.  When  we  returned  home  in  the  evening, 
he  seemed  to  feel  a  relief  in  having  got  out  of  the 
reach  of  the  world,  and  muttered  expressions,  not  to 
mention  the  inflexions  of  his  countenance,  which,  if 
fairly  set  down  on  paper,  would  almost  amount  to 
calling  his  banker  a  Jew,  his  lawyer  not  a  gentleman, 
and  his  agent  a  pettifogger.  He  was,  however,  very 
ready  to  clap  up  a  truce  with  his  ideas  when  in  com- 
pany with  these  several  personages  ;  and  though  he 
thought  he  saw  them  taking  advantages,  of  which  I  am 
persuaded  they  were  perfectly  innocent,  he  was  con- 
tented to  turn  his  face  another  way  and  pass  on.  A 
man  of  Umphraville's  disposition,  is  willing  to  suf- 
ter  all  the  penalties  of  silliness,  but  that  of  being 
thought  silly. 


No.  XXXIII.     TUESDAY,  MAY  18. 

AMONG  the  many  advantages  arising  from  cul- 
tivated sentiment,  one  of  the  first  and  most  truly  va- 
luable, is  that  delicate  complacency  of  mind  which 
leads  us  to  consult  the  feelings  of  those  with  whom 
we  live,  by  shewing  a  disposition  to  gratify  them  as 
far  as  in  our  power,  and  by  avoiding  whatever  has  a 
contrary  tendency. 

They  must,  indeed,  have  attended  little  to  what 
passes  in  the  world,  who,  do  not  know  the  importance 
of  this  disposition  ;  who  havenpt  observed,  that  the 
want  of  it  often  poisons  the  domestic  happiness  of  fa- 
milies, whose  felicity  every  other  circumstance  con- 
curs to  promote. 

Among  the  letters  lately  received  from  my  correspon- 
dents, are  two,  which,  as  they  afford  a  lively  picture 


THE     MIRROR.  161 

of  the  bad  consequences  resulting  from  the  neglect 
of  this  complacency,  I  shall  here  lay  before  my 
readers.  The  first  is  from  a  lady,  who  writes  as  fal- 
lows : 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror, 

Sir, 

MY  father  was  a  merchant  of  some  eminence, 
who  gave  me  a  good  education,  and  a  fortune  of  seve- 
ral thousand  pounds.  With  these  advantages,  a  to- 
lerable person,  and  I  think  not  an  unamiable  temper, 
I  was  not  long  arrived  at  womanhood  before  I  found 
myself  possessed  of  many  admirers.  Among  others 
was  Mr.  Gold,  a  gentleman  of  a  very  respectable 
character,  who  had  some  connections  in  trade  with 
my  father  ;  to  him,  being  a  young  man  of  a  good 
figure,  and  of  very  open  and  obliging  manners,  I  soon 
gave  the  preference,  and  we  were  accordingly  mar- 
ried with  the  universal  approbation  of  my  friends. 

We  have  now  lived  together  above  three  years, 
and  I  have  brought  him  two  boys  and  a  girl,  all  very- 
fine  child?  en.  I  go  little  abroad,  attend  to  nothing 
so  much  as  the  economy  of  our  family,  am  as  oblig- 
ing as  possible  to  all  my  husband's  friendn,  and  study 
in  every  particular  to  be  a  kind  and  dutiful  wife.  Mr. 
Gold's  reputation  and  success  in  business  daily  in- 
creases, and  he  is,  in  the  main,  a  kind  and  attentive 
husband  ;  yet  I  find  him  so  particular  in  his  temper, 
and  so  often  out  of  humour  about  trifles,  that,  in  spite 
of  all  those  comfortable  circumstances,  I  am  perfect- 
ly unhappy. 

At  one  time  he  finds  fault  with  the  dishes  at  table  ; 
at  another  with  the  choice  of  my  maid  servants  ; 
sometimes  he  is  displeased  with  the  trimming  of  my 
gown,  sometimes  with  the  shape  of  my  cloak,  or  the 
figure  of  my  head  dress  ;  and  should  I  chance  to 
give  an  opinion  on  any  subject  which  is  not  perfectly 


16t  THE   MIBRCX. 

to  his  mind,  he  probably  looks  out  of  humour  at  the 
time,  and  is  sure  to  chide  me  about  it  when  we  are 
by  ourselves. 

It  is  of  no  consequence  whether  I  have  been  right 
or  wrong  in  any  of  those  particulars.  If  I  say  a 
word  in  defence  of  my  choice  or  opinion,  it  is  sure 
to  make  matters  worse,  and  I  am  only  called  a  fool 
for  my  pains  ;  or,  if  I  express  my  wonder  that  he 
should  give  himself  uneasiness  about  such  trifles,  he 
answers,  sullenly,  that,  to  be  sure,  every  thing  is  a 
trifle  in  which  I  chuse  to  disoblige  him. 

It  was  but  the  other  day,  as  we  were  just  going 
cut  to  .dine  at  a  friend's  house,  he  told  me  my  gown 
;was  extremely  ugly.  I  answered,  his  observation 
surprised  me,  for  k  was  garnet,  and  I  had  taken  it 
off  on  hearing  him  say  he  wondered  I  never  chose 
one  of  that  colour.  Upon  this  he  flew  in  a  passion, 
said  it  was  very  odd  I  should  charge  my  bad  taste 
upon  him  ;  he  never  made  any  such  observation,  for 
the  colour  was  his  aversion.  The  dispute  at  last 
grew  so  warm,  that  I  threw  myself  down  on  a  settee, 
unable  to  continue  it,  while  he  flung  out  of  the  room, 
ordered  away  the  coach  from  the  door,  and  wrote 
an  apology  to  his  friend  for  our  not  waiting  upon 
him. 

We  dined  in  cur  different  apartments;  and  though, 
I  believe,  we  were  equally  sorry  for  what  had  passed, 
and  Mr.  Gold,  when  we  met  at  supper,  asked  my 
pardon  for  having  contradicted  me  so  roughly  ;  yet 
we  had  not  sat  half  an  hour  together,  when  he  told 
me,  that,  after  all,  I  was  certainly  mistaken,  in  say- 
ing he  had  recommended  a  garnet  colour  ;  and  when 
I  very  coolly  assured  him  I  was  not,  he  renewed  the 
dispute  with  as  much  keenness  as  ever.  We  parted 
in  the  same  bad  humour  we  had  done  before 
dinner,  and  I  have  hardly  had  a  pleasant  look  frcm 
him  since. 


THE  MIRROR.  163 

In  a  word,  Mr.  Gold  will  allow  me  to  have  no  mind 
but  his ;  and,  unless  I  can  see  with  his  eyes,  hear 
with  his  ears,  and  taste  with  his  palate,  (none  of  which 
I  can  very  easily  bring  myself  to  do,  as  you  must 
know  all  of  them  are  somewhat  particular)  I  see  no 
prospect  of  our  situation  changing  for  the  better ; 
and  what  makes  our  present  one  doubly  provoking, 
is,  that,  but  for  this  unfortunate  weakness,  Mr.  Gold, 
who  is,  in  other  respects,  a  very  worthy  man,  would 
make  one  of  the  best  of  husbands. 

Pray  tell  me,  Sir,  what  I  should  do  in  this  situa- 
tion, or  take  your  own  way  of  letting  my  husband  see 
his  weakness,  the  reformation  of  which  would  be  the 
greatest  of  all  earthly  blessings  to 
Yours,  Sec. 

Susannah  Gold. 

I  was  thinking  how  I  should  answer  this  letter,  or 
in  what  way  I  could  be  useful  to  my  correspondent, 
when  I  received  the  followiag,  the  insertion  of  which 
is,  I  believe,  the  best  reply  I  can  make  to  it. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 

Sir,  i 

I  WAS  bred  a  merchant ;  by  my  success  in  trade 
I  am  now  in  affluent  circumstances,  and  have  reason 
to  think  that  I  am  so  with  an  unblemished  character. 

Some  years  ago,  I  married  the  daughter  of  a  re- 
spectable citizen,  who  brought  a  comfortable  addition 
to  my  fortune  ;  and,  as  she  had  been  virtuously  edu- 
cated, and  seemed  cheerful  and  good  tempered,  as  I 
was  my  self  naturally  of  a  domestic  turn,  and  resolved 
to  make  a  good  husband,  I  thought  we  bade  fair  for 
being  happy  in  each  other. 

But,  though  I  must  do  my  spouse  the  justice  to 
say,  that  she  is  discreet  and  prudent,  attentive  to  the 
affairs  of  her  family,  a  careful  and  fond  mother  to 
p  2 


I£4  THI   MIRROR. 

her  children,  and,  in  many  respects,  an  affectionate 
and  dutiful  wife  ;  yet  one  foible  in  her  temper  de- 
stroys the  effect  of  all  these  good  qualities.  She  is 
so  much  attached  to  her  own  opinion  in  every  trifle, 
so  impatient  of  contradiction  in  them,  and  with  all  so 
ready  to  dispute  mine,  that,  if  I  disapprove  of  her 
taste  or  sentiments  in  any  one  particular,  or  seem 
dissatisfied  when  she  disapproves  of  my  taste  or  sen- 
timents, it  is  the  certain  source  of  a  quarrel ;  and 
while  we  perfectly  agree  as  to  our  general  plan  of 
life,  and  every  essential  circumstance  of  our  domes- 
tic economy,  this  silly  fancy,  that  I  must  eat,  dress, 
think,  and  speak,  precisely  as  she  would  have  me, 
while  she  will  not  accommodate  herself  to  me  in  the 
most  trifling  of  these  particulars,  give  me  perpetual 
uneasiness  ;  and,  with  almost  every  thing  I  could 
wish,  a  genteel  income,  a  good  reputation,  a  fine  fa- 
mily, and  a  virtuous  wife,  whom  I  sincerely  esteem, 
I  have  the  mortification  to  find  myself  absolutely 
unhappy. 

I  am  sure  this  foible  of  my  poor  wife's  will  appear 
to  you,  MK  Mirror,  in  its  proper  light ;  your  making 
it  appear  so  to  her,  may  be  the  means  of  alleviating 
our  mutual  distress  ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  be- 
lieve, she  is  almost  as  great  a  sufferer  as  I  am.  I 
hope  you  will  gratify  me  in  this  desire  ;  by  doing 
so  you  may  be  of  general  service,  and  will  particu- 
larly oblige 

Your  constant  reader,  and 
Obedient  humble  servant, 

Nathaniel  Gold. 

On  comparing  these  two  letters,  it  is  evident,  that, 
from  the  want  of  that  complacency  mentioned  in  the 
beginning  of  this  paper,  the  very  sensibility  of  tem- 
per, and  strength  of  affection,  which,  under  its  influ- 
ence, would  have  made  this  good  couple  happy,  has 
>ad  a-  quite  contrary  effect.     The  source  of  the  dia- 


THE    MIRROR.  165* 

quiet  they  complain  of,  is  nothing  else  than  the  want 
of  that  respect  for  taste,  feelings,  and  opinions  of 
each  other,  which  constitutes  the  disposition  I  have 
recommended  above,  and  which,  so  far  from  being 
inconsistent  with  a  reasonable  desire  of  reforming 
each  other  in  these  particulars,  is  the  most  probable 
means  of  accomplishing  it. 

Nor  is  the  case  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gold  singular  in 
this  respect.  By  much  the  greatest  part  of  domestic 
quarrels  originate  from  the  want  of  this  pliancy  of 
disposition,  which  people  seem,  very  absurdly,  to  sup- 
pose may  be  disoensed  with  in  trifles.  1  have  known 
a  man  who  would  have  parted  with  half  his  estate  to 
serve  a  friend,  to  whom  he  would  not  have  yielded  a 
hair's  breadth  in  an  argument.  But  the  lesser  vir- 
tues must  be  attended  to  as  well  was  the  greater ; 
the  manners  as  well  as  the  duties  of  life.  They  form 
a  sort  of  Pocket  Coin,  which,  though  it  does  not  enter 
into  great  and  important  transactions,  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  common  and  ordinary  intercourse. 


No.  XXX IV.     SATURDAY,  MAY  22. 

IN  compliance  with  a  promise  I  made  my  readers 
at  the  close  of  last  Saturday's  paper,  (at  least  it  was 
that  sort  of  promise  which  a  man  keeps  when  the 
thing  suits  his  inclination,)  I  proceed  to  give  them 
an  account  of  that  dinner  to  which  my  friend  Mr. 
Umphraville  and  I  were  invited  by  his  cousin  Mr. 
Bearskin. 

On  our  way  to  the  house,  I  perceived  certain  symp- 
toms of  dissatisfaction,  which  my  friend  could  not 
help  bringing  forth,  though  he  durst  not  impute  them 


166"  THE  MIRROR. 

to  the  right  cause,  as  I  have  heard  of  men  beating 
their  wives  at  home,  to  revenge  themselves  for  the 
crosses  they  have  met  with  abroad.  He  complained 
of  the  moistness  of  the  weather,  and  the  dirtiness,  of 
the  street ;  was  quite  fatigued  with  the  length  of  the 
way,  (Mr.  Bearskin's  house  being  fashionably  eccen- 
tric,) and  almost  cursed  the  taylor  for  the  tightness 
of  a  suit  of  cloaths,  which  he  had  bespoke  on  his 
arrival  in  town,  and  had  now  put  on  for  the  first  time. 
His  chagrin,  I  believe,  was  increased  by  his  having 
just  learned  from  his  lawyer,  that  the  business  he 
came  to  town  about,  could  not  be  finished  at  the  time 
he  expected,  but  would  probably  last  a  week  longer. 

When  we  entered  Mr.  Bearskin's  drawing-room, 
we  found  his  wife  sitting  with  her  three  daughters 
ready  to  receive  us.  It  was  easy  to  see,  by  the  air  of 
the  lady,  that  she  v?as  perfectly  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  that  her  husband  was  only  a  secondary  person 
there.  He  seemed,  however,  contented  with  his  si- 
tuation, and  an  admirer  of  his  wife  ;  a  sort  of  lap-dog 
husband  (of  whom  I  have  seen  many)  who  looks 
sleek,  runs  about  briskly,  and  though  he  now  and 
then  gets  a  kick  from  his  mistress,  is  as  ready  to  play 
over  his  tricks  again  as  ever. 

Mr.  Bearskin,  after  many  expressions  of  his  hap- 
piness in  seeing  his  cousin  in  his  new  house,  proposed 
walking  us  down  stairs  again,  to  begin  shewing  it 
from  the  ground-story  upwards.  Umphraville,  though 
I  saw  him  sweating  at  the  idea,  was  ready  to  follow 
his  conductor,  when  we  were  saved  by  the  interpo- 
sition of  the  lady,  who  uttered  a  "  Psha  1  Mr.  Bear- 
"  skin,"  with  so  significant  a  look,  that  her  husband 
instantly  dropped  his  design,  saying,  "  to  be  sure 
"  there  was  not  much  worth  seeing,  though  he  could 
"  have  wished  to  have  shewn  his  cousin  his  study, 
"  which  he  thought  was  tolerably  clever."  "  I 
"  thought,  Papa,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  Misses,  "  it 
"  was  not  quite  in  order  yet." — *  Why,  not  altege- 


THE   MIRROR.  167 

*  ther,"  replied  her  father  ;  "  I  have  not  been  able 
*'  to  get  up  my  heads,  as  Pope  has  lost  an  ear,  and 

*  Homer  the  left  side  of  his  beard,  by  the  careless- 

*  ness  of  a  packer  ;  and  I  want  about  three  feet  ar.d 
u  a  half  of  folios  for  my  lowest  shelf." — "  I  don't 
**  care  if  there  was  not  a  folio  in  the  world,"  rejoined 
Miss.  "  Child  1"  said  her  mother,  in  a  tone  of  re- 
buke.— Miss  bridled  up,  and  was  silent  ; — I  smiled  ; 
Umphraville  walked  to  th«  window,  and  wiped  his 
forehead. 

Bearskin  now  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  telling  the 
hour,  said,  he  wondered  his  friend  Mr.  Blubber  was 
not  come,  as  he  was  generally  punctual  to  a  minute* 
While  he  spoke,  a  loud  rap  at  the  door  announced 
the  expected  company  ;  and  presently  Mr.  Blubber, 
his  wife,  a  son,  and  two  daughters,  entered  the  room. 
The  first  had  on  an  old-fashioned  pompadour  coat, 
with  gold  buttons,  and  very  voluminous  sleeves,  his 
head  adorned  by  a  large  major  wig,  with  curls  as 
white  and  as  stiff  as  if  they  had  been  cast  in  plaster 
of  Paris;  but  the  females,  and  heir  of  the  family, 
were  dressed  in  the  very  height  of  the  mode.  Bear- 
skin introduced  the  old  gentleman  to  his  cousin  Mr. 

Umphraville  : "  Mr.  Blubber,  Sir,  a  very  particu- 

u  lar  friend  of  mine,  and  (turning  to  me  with  a  whi&- 
"  per)  worth  fourscore  thousand  pounds,  if  he's  worth 
"  a  farthing."  Blubber  said,  he  feared  they  had  kept 
us  waiting  ;  but  that  his  wife  and  daughters  had  got 
under  the  hands  of  the  hair-dresser,  and  he  verily 
thought  would  never  have  had  done  with  him.  The 
lidies  were  too  busy  to  reply  to  this  accusation  ;  they 
had  got  into  a  committee  of  enquiry  on  Mr.  Edward 
Blubber's  waistcoat,  which  had  been  tamboured,  it 
seems,  by  his  sisters,  and  was  universally  declared 
to  be  monstrous  handsome.  The  young  man  himself 
seemed  to  be  highly  delighted  with  the  reflection  of 
it  in  a  mirror  that  stood  opposite  to  him.  "  Isn't  it 
«'  vastly  pretty,  Sir,"  said  one  of  the  young  ladies 


168  THE    MIRROR. 

to  Umphraville?  M  Ma'am,"  said  he,  starting  from 
a  reverie,  in  which  I  saw,  by  his  countenance,  he 
was  meditating  on  the  young  gentleman  and  his  waist- 
coat in  no  very  favourable  manner.  I  read  her 
countenance,  too:  she  thought  Umphraville  just  the 
fool  he  did  her  brother. 

Dinner  was  now  announced,  and  the  company,  af- 
ter some  ceremonial,  got  into  their  places  at  table, 
in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a  sumptuous  epargne, 
filled,  as  Bearskin  informed  us,  with  the  produce  of 
his  farm.  This  joke,  which,  I  suppose,  was  as  re- 
gular as  the  grace  before  dinner,  was  explained  to  the 
ignorant  to  mean,  that  the  sweet-meats  came  from 
a  plantation  in  one  of  the  West-India  islands,  in  which 
he  had  a  concern.  The  epargne  itself  now  produced 
another  dissertation  from  the  ladies,  and,  like  the 
waistcoat,  was  also  pronounced  monstrous  handsome. 
Blubber,  taking  his  eye  half  off  a  plate  of  salmon, 
to  which  he  had  just  been  helped,  observed,  that  it 
would  come  to  a  handsome  price  too: — "  sixty  ounces, 
"  I'll  warrant  it,"  said  he,  "  but,  as  the  plate-tax  is 
M  now  repealed,  it  will  cost  but  the  interest  a-keep- 
«  ing." — »  La  !  Papa,"  said  Miss  Blubber,  "  you 
"  are  always  thinking  of  the  money  things  cost." — 
"  Yes,"  added  her  brother,  "  Tables  of  interest  are 
"  an  excellent  accompaniment  for  a  desert." — At  this 
speech  all  the  ladies  laughed  very  loud.  Blubber 
said,  he  was  an  impudent  dog,  but  seemed  to  relish 
his  son's  wit  notwithstanding.  Umphraville  locked 
sternly  at  him  ;  and,  had  not  a  glance  of  his  waist- 
coat set  him  down  as  something  beneath  a  man's  an- 
ger, I  do  not  know  what  consequences  might  have 
followed.  During  the  rest  of  the  entertainment,  I 
could  see  the  fumes  of  fool  and  coxcomb  on  every 
morsel  that  Umphraville  swallowed,  though  Mrs. 
Bearskin,  next  whom  he  sat,  was  at  great  pains,  to 
help  him  to  the  nice  bits  of  every  thiog  within  her 
reach. 


THE    MIRROR.  I  69 

When  dinner  was  over,  Mr.  Blubber  mentioned  his 
design  of  making  a  tour  through  the  Highlands,  to 
visit  Stirling,  Taymouth,  and  Dunkeld  ;  and  applying 
to  our  landlord  for  some  description  of  these  places, 
was  by  him  referred  to  Mr.  Umphraville  and  me. 
Mr.  Umphraville  was  not  in  a  communicative  mood  ; 
so  I  was  obliged  to  assure  Mr.  Blubber,  who  talked 
with  much  uncertainty  and  apprehension  of  these 
matters,  that  he  would  find  beds  and  bed-cloaths, 
meat  for  himself,  and  corn  for  his  horses,  at  the  se- 
veral places  above  mentioned  ;  that  he  had  no  dan- 
gerous seas  to  cross  in  getting  at  them  ;  and  that 
there  were  no  highwaymen  upon  the   road. 

After  this  there  was  a  considerable  interval  of  si- 
lence, and  we  were  in  danger  of  getting  once  more 
upon  Mr.  Edwards's  fine  waistcoat,  when  Mr.  Bear- 
skin, informing  the  company,  that  his  cousin  was  a 
great  lover  of  music,  called  on  his  daughter,  Miss 
Polly,  for  a  song,  with  which,  after  some  of  the  usual 
apologies,  she  complied  ;  and,  in  compliment  to  Mr. 
Umphraville's  taste,  who  she  was  sure  must  like 
Italian  music,  she  sung,  or  rather  squalled  a  song  of 
Sachini's,  in  which  there  was  scarce  one  bar  in  time 
from  beginning  to  end.  Miss  Blubber  said,  in  her 
usual  phraseology,  that  it  was  a  monstrous  sweet 
air — Her  brother  swore  it  was  divinely  sung. — Um- 
phraville gulped  down  a  falsehood  with  a  very  bad 
grace,  and  said,  Miss  would  be  a  good  singer  with  a 
little  more  practice....  Acompliment  which  was  not  more 
distant  from  truth  on  one  side,  than  from  Miss's  ex- 
pectations on  the  other,  and  I  could  plainly  perceive, 
did  not  set  him  fonvard  in  the  favour  of  the  family. 

"  My  father  is  a  judge  of  singing  too,"  said  Mr. 
Edward  Blubber  ;  "  what  is  your  opinion  of  the  song, 
"  Sir  ?" — "  My  opinion  is,"  said  he,  "  that  your 
"  Italianos  always  set  me  asleep  ;  English  ears 
"  should  have  English  songs,  I  think." — "  Then  sup- 
"  pose  one  of  the  ladies  should  give  us  an  English 


170  THE    MIRROR. 

"  song,"  said  I.  "  'Tis  a  good  motion,"  said  Mr. 
Bearskin,  "  I  second  it ;  Miss  Betsy  Blubber  sings 
"  an  excellent  English  song." — Miss  Betsy  denied 
stoutly  that  she  ever  sung  at  all ;  but  evidence  being 
produced  against  her,  she,  at  last,  said  she  would  try  if 
she  could  make  out,  "  The  Maid's  Choice."  M  Ay, 
"  ay,  Betsy,"  said  her  father,  "  a  very  good  song  ; 
**  I  have  heard  it  before." 


-"  If  I  could  but  find, 


I  care  not  for  fortune — Umh! — a  man  to  my  mind." 

Miss  Betsy  began  the  song  accordingly,  and  to  make 
up  for  her  want  of  voice,  accompanied  it  with  a  great 
deal  of  action.  Either  from  the  accident  of  his  being 
placed  opposite  to  her,  or  from  a  sly  application  to 
his  state  as  an  old  bachelor,  she  chose  to  personify 
the  maid's  choice  in  the  figure  of  Umphraville,  and 
pointed  the  description  of  the  song  particularly  at 
him.  Umphraville,  with  all  his  dignity,  his  abilities, 
and  his  knowledge,  felt  himself  uneasy  and  ridicu- 
lous under  the  silly  allusion  of  a  ballad  ;  he  blushed, 
attempted  to  laugh,  blushed  again,  and  still  looked 
with  that  awkward  importance  which  only  the  more 
attracted  the  ridicule  of  the  fools  around  him.  Not 
long  after  the  ladies  retired  ;  and  no  persuasion  of 
his  cousin  could  induce  him  to  s>tay  the  evening,  or 
even  to  enter  the  drawing-room  where  they  were 
assembled  at  tea. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !"  said  Umphraville,  when  the 
door  was  shut,  and  we  had  got  fairly  into  the  street. 
"  Amen!"  I  replied,  smiling,  "  for  our  good  dinner 

"  and  excellent  wine!" "How  the  devil, Charles," 

said  he,  "  do  you  contrive  to  bear  all  this  nonsense 
"  with  the  composure  you  do?" — u  Why,  I  have 
"  often  told  ycu,  my  friend,  that  our  earth  is  not  a 
"  planet  fitted  up  only  for  the  reception  of  wise  men. 
"  Your  Blubbers  and  Bearskins  are  necessary  parts 


THE    MIRROR.  171 

"  of  the  system ;  they  deserve  the  enjoyments  they 
are  capable  of  feeling; — and  I  am  not  sure  if  he  who 
suffers  from  his  own  superiority  does  not  deserve  his 
sufferings." 
I 


No.  XXXV.     TUESDAY,  MAY  25. 

To  the  Anther  of  the  Mirror. 

Sir, 
TILL  I  arrived  at  the  age  of  twenty,  my  time  was 
divided  between  my  books,  and  the  society  of  a  few 
friends,  whom   a  similarity  of  pursuits   and  disposi- 
tions recommended  to  me.     About  that  period,  find- 
ing that  the  habits  of  reserve  and  retirement  had  ac- 
quired a  power  over  me,  which  my  situation,  as  heir 
to  a  considerable  fortune,  would  render  inconvenient, 
I  was  prevailed  upon,  partly  by  a  sense  of  this,  partly 
by  the  importunity  of  my  relations,  to  make  an  effort 
for  acquiring  a  more  general  acquaintance,   and  fa- 
shionable deportment.     As  I  was  conscious  of  an  in- 
clination to  oblige,  and  a  quick  sense  of  propriety, 
two  qualities  which  I  esteemed  the  ground  of  good- 
breeding  ;  as  my  wit  was   tolerably   ready,  and   my 
figure  not  disadvantageous,  I  own  to  you  that  I  enter- 
tained some  hopes  of  success. 

I  was,  however,  unsuccessful.  The  novelty  of  the 
scenes  in  which  I  found  myself  engaged,  the  multi- 
plicity of  observances  and  attention  requisite  upon 
points  which  I  had  always  regarded  as  below  my  no- 
tice, embarrassed  and  confounded  me.  The  feelings 
to  which  I  had  trusted  for  my  direction,  served  only 
to  make  me  awkward,  and  fearful  of  offending.  My 
obsequious  services  in  the  drawing-room  passed  unre- 
vol.  i.  q_ 


172  THE    MIRROR. 

warded  ;  and  my  observations,  when  I  ventured  to 
mingle,  either  in  the  chat  of  the  women,  being  de- 
livered with  timidity  and  hesitation,  were  overlooked 
or  neglected.  Some  of  the  more  elderly  and  discreet 
among  the  former  seemed  to  pity  me  ;  and  I  could 
not  help  remarking,  that  they  often,  as  if  they  had 
meant  the  hint  forme,  talked  of  the  advantage  to  be 
derived  from  the  perusal  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  Let- 
ters. To  this  author,  then,  as  soon  as  I  learned  his 
subject,  I  had  recourse,  as  to  a  guide  that  would 
point  out  my  way,  and  support  me  in  my  journey. 
But,  how  much  was  I  astonished,  when,  through  a 
veil  of  wit,  ridicule,  elegant  expression,  and  lively 
illustration,  I  discerned  a  studied  system  of  frivolity, 
meanness,  flattery,  and  dissimulation,  inculcated  as 
the  surest  and  most  eligible  road  to  eminence  and 
popularity  ! 

Young  as  I  am,  Mr.  Mirror,  and  heedless  as  I 
may  consequently  be  supposed,  1  cannot  think  that 
this  work  is  a  code  proper  for  being  held  up  to  us  as 
the  regulator  of  our  conduct.  The  talents  insisted 
on  with  peculiar  emphasis,  the  accomplishments  most 
earnestly  recommended,  are  such  as.  in  ^ur  days,  if 
they  ought  to  be  treated  of  at  all,  should  be  mention- 
ed only  to  put  us  on  our  guard  against  them.  If 
riches  naturally  tend  to  render  trifles  of  importance  ; 
if  they  direct  our  attention  too  much  toward  exterior 
accomplishments  ;  if  they  propagate  the  courtly  and 
complying  spirit  too  extensively  at  any  rate,  we  cer- 
tainly, in  this  country,  so  wealthy  and  luxurious,  have 
no  need  of  exhortation  to  cultivate  or  acquire  those 
qualifications.  The  habits  that  may  arrest  for  a  little 
time  the  progress  of  this  corruption,  ought  now  to 
be  insisted  on.  Independence,  fortitude,  stubborn 
integrity,  and  pride  that  disdains  the  shadow  of  ser- 
vility ;  these  are  the  virtues  which  a  tutor  should  in- 
culcate ;  these  the  blessings  which  a  fond  father 
should  supplicate  from  Heaven  for  his  offspring. 


THE    MIRROR.  '  173 

It  is,  throughout,  the  error  of  his  lordship's  system, 
to  consider  talents  and  accomplishments,  according 
to  the  use  that  may  be  made  of  them,  rather  than 
their  intrinsic  worth.  In  his  catechism,  applause  is 
rectitude,  and  success  is  morality.  That,  in  our  days, 
a  person  may  rise  to  eminence  by  trivial  accomplish- 
ments, and  become  popular  by  flattery  and  dissimu- 
lation, may,  perhaps,  be  true.  But,  from  this  it  sure- 
ly does  .or  follow,  that  these  are  the  means  which 
an  honourable  character  should  employ.  There  is  a 
dignit)  ii  the  mind,  which  cultivates  those  arts  alone 
that  are  valuable;  which  courts  those  characters  alone 
that  are  worthy,  which  disdains  to  conceal  its  own 
sentiments,  or  minister  to  the  foibles  of  others ; 
there  is,  I  say,  a  conscious  dignity  and  satisfaction  in 
these  feelings,  which  neither  applause,  nor  power* 
nor  popularity,  without  them,  can  ever  bestow. 

Many  of  his  lordship's  distinctions  are  too  nice 
for  my  faculties.  I  cannot,  for  my  part,  discern  the 
difference  between  feigned  confidence  and  insincerity ; 
between  the  conduct  that  conveys  the  approbation  of 
a  sentiment,  or  the  flattery  of  a  foible,  and  the  words 
that  declare  it.  I  should  think  the  man  whose  coun- 
tenance was  open,  and  his  thoughts  concealed,  a 
hypocrite  ;  I  should  term  him,  who  could  treat  his 
friends  as  if  they  were  at  the  same  time  to  be  his 
enemies,  a  monster  of  ingratitude  and  duplicity.  It 
is  dangerous  to  trifle  thus  upon  the  borders  of  virtue. 
By  teaching  us  that  it  may  insensibly  be  blended 
with  vice,  that  their  respective  limits  are  not  in  every 
case  evident  and  certain,  our  veneration  for  it  is  di- 
minished. Its  chief  safeguard  is  a  jealous  sensibility, 
that  startles  at  the  co'our  or  shadow  of  deceit.  When 
this  barrier  has  been  insulted,  can  any  other  be  op- 
posed at  which  conscience  will  arise  and  proclaim, 
thus  far,  and  no  farther,  shalt  thou  advance  ? 

The  love  of  general  applause,  recommended  by 
bis  lordship,  as  the  great  principle  of  conduct,  is  a 
folly  and  a  weakness.      He   that  directs  himself  by 


i74  1»>TK   MIRROR. 

this  compass,  cannot  hope  to  steer  through  life  with 
steadiness  and  consistency.  He  must  surrender  his 
own  character,  and  assume  the  hue  of  every  company 
he  enters.  To  court  the  approbation  of  any  one»  is, 
in  a  tacit  manner,  to  do  homage  to  his  judgment  or 
his  feelings.  He  that  extends  his  courtship  of  it 
beyond  the  praise-worthy,  violates  the  exclusive  pri- 
vilege of  virtue,  and  must  seek  it  by  unworthy   arts. 

On  the  other  hand,  though  I  am  by  no  means  a 
friend  to  rash  and  unguarde€  censure,  yet  I  cannot 
help  considering  the  conduct  of  him  who  will  censure 
nothing,  who  will  speak  his  sentiments  of  no  charac- 
ter with  freedom,  who  palliates  every  error,  and  apo- 
logizes for  every  failing,  as  more  nearly  allied  to 
meanness,  timidity,  and  a  time-serving  temper,  than 
it  is  connected  with  candour,  or  favourable  to  the 
cause  of  virtue. 

Nor  can  I  persuade  myself  that  his  lordship's  sys- 
tem will  be  attended  with  general  success.  The 
real  character  is  the  only  one  that  can  be  maintained 
at  all  times,  and  in  all  dispositions.  Professions  of 
friendship  and  regard  will  lead  to  expectations  of 
service  that  cannot  be  answered.  The  sentiments 
delivered  in  one  company,  the  manners  assumed  upon 
one  occasion,  will  be  remembered,  and  contrasted 
with  those  that  are  presented  on  another.  Suspicion, 
once  awakened,  will  penetrate  the  darkest  cloud 
which  art  can  throw  around  a  person  in  the  common 
intercourse  of  life. 

Let  us  consider,  too,  were  this  system  generally 
adopted,  what  a  dull  insipid  scene  must  society  be- 
come ?  No  distinction,  no  natural  expression,  of  cha- 
racter ;  no  confidence  in  professions  of  any  kind  ; 
no  assurance  of  sincerity  ;  no  secret  sympathy,  nor 
delightful  correspondence  of  feeling.  All  the  sallies 
of  wit,  all  the  graces  of  polite  manners,  woidd  but 
ill  supply  the  want  of  these  pleasures,  the  purest 
and  most  elegant  which  human  life  affords. 

Iiu  genius. 


THE    MIRROR.  17$ 

To  the  Author  of  Che  Mirror. 


AS  you  treat  much  of  politeness,  I  wish  you  would 
take  notice  of  a  particular  sort  of  incivility,  from 
which  one  suffers,  without  being  thought  intitled  to 
complain.  I  mean  -that  of  never  contradicting  one 
at  all. 

I  have  come  lately  from  my  father's  in  the  coun- 
try, where  I  was  reckoned  a  girl  of  tolerable  parts, 
to  reside  for  some  time  at  my  aunt's  in  town.  Here 
is  a  visitor,  Mr.  D*pperwit,  a  good-looking  young 
man,  with  white  teeth,  a  fine  complexion,  his  cheeks 
dimpled,  and  rather  a  little  full  and  large  at  bottom  ; 
in  short,  the  civilest,  most  complying  sort  of  face 
you  can  imagine.  As  I  had  often  taken  notice  of  his 
behaviour,  I  was  resolved  to  minute  down  his  dis- 
course the  other  evening  at  tea.  The  conversation 
began  about  the  weather,  my  aunt  observing,  that 
the  seasons  were  wonderfully  altered  in  her  memory. 
"  Certainly,  my  lady/*  said  Mr.  Dapperwit,  "  ama- 
"  zingly  altered  indeed.'* — u  Now  I  have  heard  my 
"  father  say,  (said  1)  that  is  a  vulgar  error;  forthatit 
"  appears  from  registers  kept  for  the  purpose,  that 
u  the  state  of  the  weather,  though  it  may  be  differ- 
il  ent  in  certain  seasons,  months,  or  weeks,  preserves 
iC  a  wonderful  equilibrium  in  general." — "  Why,  to 
"  be  sure,  Miss,  I  believe,  in  general,  as  you  say  ; 
"  — but,  talking  of  the  weather,  I  hope  your  lady- 
"  ship  caught  no  cold  at  the  play  t'other  night  ;  we 
iv  were  so  awkwardly  situated  in  getting  out." — "  Not 
**  in  the  least,  Sir  ;  I  was  greatly  obliged  to  your 
"  services  there." — "  You  were  well  entertained,  I 
4<  hope,  my  lady." — "  Very  well,  indeed  :  I  laughed 
'4  exceedingly  ;  there  is  a  great  deal  of  wit  in 
"  Shakespeare's  comedies  ;  'tis  a  pity  there  is  sc» 
u  much  of  low  life  in  them." — ((  Your  ladyship's  cii- 
0  2 


176  THE    MIRROR. 

u  ticism  is  extremely  just;  every  body  must  be  struck 
"  with  it." — "  Why  now,  I  think,  (said  I  again)  that 
11  what  you  call  low  life,  is  nature,  which  I  would 
"  not  lose  for  all  the  rest  of  the  play." — u  Oh  I 
"  doubtless,  Miss  ;  for  nature  Skakespeare  is  inimi- 
44  table  ;  every  body  must  allow  that." — "  What  do 
44  you  think,  Sir,  (said  my  cousin  Betsy,  who  is  a 
44  piece  of  a  poetess  herself)  of  that  monody  you 
44  were  so  kind  as  to  send  us  yesterday  ?" — 44  I  never 
44  deliver  my  opinion,  Ma'am,  before  so  able  a  judge, 
44  till  I  am  first  informed  of  hers." — "  I  think  it  the 
44  most  beautiful  poem,  Sir,  I  have  read  of  a  great 
44  while." — 44  Your  opinion,  Ma'am,  natters  me  ex- 
44  tremely,  as  it  agrees  exactly  with  my  own  ;  they 
44  are,  I  think,  incontestibly  the  sweetest  lines." — 
*<  Sweet  they  may  be,  (here  I  broke  in)  :  I  allow 
44  them  merit  in  the  versification  ;  but  that  is  only 
44  one  ;  and,  with  me,  by  no  means  the  chief,  requi- 
44  site  in  a  poem  ;  they  want  force  altogether." — 
44  Nay,  as  to  the  matter  of  force,  indeed  it  must  be 
kt  owned." — 44  Yes,  Sir,  and  unity,  and  propriety, 
44  and  a  thousand  other  things  ;  but,  if  my  cousin 
44  will  be  kind  enough  to  fetch  the  poem  from  her 
44  dressing-room,  we  will  be  judged  by  you,  Mr. 
44  Dapperwit." — u  Pardon  me,  ladies,  you  would  not 
44  have  me  be  so  rude. 

"  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  J** 

And,  with  that,  he  made  one  of  the  finest  bows  in 
the  world. 

If  all  this,  Sir,  proceed  from  silliness,  we  must 
pity  the  man,  and  there's  an  end  on't ;  if  it  arise 
from  an  idea  of  silliness  in  us,  let  such  gentlemen 
as  Mr.  Dapperwit  know,  that  they  are  very  much 
mistaken.  But  if  it  be  the  effect  of  pure  civility — 
pray  inform  them,  Mr.  Mirror,  that  it  is  the  most 


THE   MIRROR.  177 

provoking    piece    of    rudeness    they    can    possibly 
commit. 

Yours,  &c. 

Bridget  Nettlewit. 


No.  XXXVI.     SATURDAY,  MAY  29. 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest.  Gray. 

NOTHING  has  a  greater  tendency  to  elevate  and 
affect  the  heart  than  the  reflection  upon  those  per- 
sonages who  have  performed  a  distinguished  part 
on  the  theatre  of  life,  whose  actions  were  attended 
with  important  consequences  to  the  world  around 
them,  or  whose  writings  have  animated  or  instructed 
mankind.  The  thought  that  they  are  now  no  more, 
that  their  ashes  are  mingled  with  those  of  the  mean- 
est and  most  worthless,  affords  a  subject  of  contemp- 
lation, which,  however  melancholy,  the  mind,  in  a 
moment  of  pensiveness,  may  feel  a  secret  sort  of  de- 
light to  indulge.  "  Tell  her,"  says  Hamlet,  "  that 
"  she  may  paint  an  inch  thick  ;  yet  to  this  she  must 
"  come  at  last." 

When  Xerxes,  at  the  head  of  his  numerous  army, 
saw  all  his  troops  ranged  in  order  before  him,  he  burst 
into  tears  at  the  thought,  that,  in  a  short  time,  they 
would  be  sweeped  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  be 
removed  to  give  place  to  those  who  would  fill  other 
armies,  and  rank  under  other  generals. 

Something  of  what  Xerxes  felt,  from  the  conside- 
ration that  those  who  then  were,  should  cease  to  be, 
it  is  equally  natural  to  feel  from  the  reflection,  that 
all  who  have  formerly  lived  have  ceased  to  live,  and 
that  nothing  more  remains  than  the  memory  of  a  very 


178  THE    MIRROR. 

fev/  who  have  left  some  memorial  which  keeps  alive 
their  names,  and  the  fame  with  which  those  names 
are  accompanied. 

But  serious  as  this  reflection  may  be,  it  is  not  so 
deep  as  the  thought,  that  even  of  those  persons  who 
were  possessed  of  talents  for  distinguishing  themselves 
in  the  world,  for  having  their  memories  handed  down 
from  age  to  age,  much  the  greater  part,  it  is  likely, 
from  hard  necessity,  or  by  some  of  the  various  fatal 
accidents  of  life,  have  been  excluded  from  the  possi- 
bility of  exerting  themselves,  or  of  being  useful  either 
to  those  who  lived  in  the  same  age,  or  to  posterity. 
Poverty  in  many,  and  "  disastrous  chance"  in  others, 
have  chill'd  the  "  genial  current  of  the  soul,"  and 
numbers  have  been  cut  ofY  by  premature  death  in  the 
midst  of  project  and  ambition.  How  many  have 
there  been  in  the  ages  that  are  past,  how  many  may 
exist  at  this  very  moment,  who,  with  all  the  talenis. 
fitted  to  shine  in  the  world,  to  guide  or  to  instruct 
it,  may,  by  some  secret  misfortune,  have  had  their 
minds  depressed,  or  the  fire  of  their  genius  extin- 
guished I 

I  have  been  led  into  these  reflections  from  the  pe- 
rusal of  a  small  volume  of  poems  which  happens  now 
to  lie  before  me,  which,  though  possessed  of  very 
considerable  merit,  and  composed  in  this  country r 
are,  I  believe  very  little  known.  In  a  well-written 
preface,  the  reader  is  told,  that  most  of  them  are  the 
production  of  Michael  Bruce  ;  that  this  Michael 
Bruce  was  born  in  a  remote  village  in  Kinross-shire, 
and  descended  from  parents  remarkable  for  nothing 
but  the  innocence  and  simplicity  of  their  lives  :  that, 
in  the  twenty-first  year  of  his  age,  he  was  seized  with 
a  consumption,  which  put  an  end  to  his  life. 

Nothing,  methinks,  has  more  the  power  of  awak- 
ening benevolence,  than  the  consideration  of  genius 
thus  depressed  by  situation,  suffered  to  pine  in  obscu- 
rity and  sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  this  unfortunate: 


THE    MIRROR.  179 

young  man,  to  perish,  it  may  be,  for  want  of  those 
comforts  and  convenicncies  which  might  have  foster- 
ed a  delicacy  of  frame  or  of  mind,  ill-calculated  to 
bear  the  hardships  which  poverty  lays  on  both.  For 
my  own  part,  I  never  pass  the  place,  (a  little  hamlet, 
skirted  with  a  circle  of  old  ash-trees,  about  three 
miles  on  this  side  of  Kinross)  where  Michael  Bruce 
resided  ;  I  never  look  on  his  dwelling — a  small  thatch- 
ed house,  distinguished  from  the  cottages  of  the  other 
inhabitants  only  by  a  sashed  window  at  the  end,  in- 
stead of  a  lattice,  fringed  with  a  honeysuckle  plant, 
which  the  poor  youth  had  trained  around  it ; — I  ne- 
ver find  myself  in  that  spot,  but  I  stop  my  horse  in- 
voluntarily ;  and  looking  on  the  window,  which  the 
honeysuckle  has  now  almost  covered,  in  the  dream 
of  the  moment,  I  picture  out  a  figure  for  the  gentle 
tenant  of  the  mansion  ;  I  wish,  and  my  heart  swells, 
while  I  do  so,  that  he  were  alive,  and  that  I  were  a 
great  man  to  have  the  luxury  of  visiting  him  there, 

and  bidding  him  be  happy. 1   cannot  carry  my 

readers  thither  ;  but,  that  they  may  share  some  of 
my  feelings,  I  will  present  them  with  an  extract  from 
the  last  poem  in  the  little  volume  before  me,  which, 
from  its  subject,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  is  writ- 
ten, cannot  fail  of  touching  the  heart  of  every  one 
who  reads  it. 

A  young  man  of  genius,  in  a  deep  consumption, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  feeling  himself  every  mo- 
ment going  faster  to  decline,  is  an  object  sufficiently 
interesting  ;  but  how  much  must  every  feeling  on  the 
occasion  be  heightened,  when  we  know  that  this  per- 
son possessed  so  much  dignity  and  composure  of 
mind,  as  not  only  to  contemplate  his  approaching 
fate,  but  even  to  write  a  poem  on  the  subject  I 

In  the  French  language  there  is  a  much-admired 
poem  of  the  Abbe  de  Chaulieu,  written,  in  expecta- 
tion of  his  own  deatih,  to  the  Marquis  de  la  Farre, 
lamenting  his  approaching  separation  from  his  friend* 


180  THE     MIRROR. 

Micbafel  Bruce,  who,  it  is  probable,  never  heard  of 
the  Abbe  de  Chaulieu,  has  also  written  a  poem  on  his 
own  approaching  death  ;  with  the  latter  part  of  which 
I  shall  conclude<this  paper. 


Now  spring  returns  ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joys  my  better  days  have  known  : 

Dim  in  my  breast  life's  dying  taper  burns, 

And  all  the  joys  of  life  with  health  are  flown. 

Starting  and  shiv'ring  in  th'  inconstant  %vind, 
Meagre  and  pale,  the  ghost  of  what  I  was, 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  I  lie  reclin'd, 
And  count  the  silent  moments  as  they  pass. 

The  winged  moments,  whose  unstaying  speed 
No  art  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest ; 

Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the  dead, 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  with  them  that  rest. 

Oft  morning-dreams  presage  approaching  fate  ; 

And  morning-dreams,  as  poets  tel),  are  true. 
Led  by  pale  ghosts,  I  enter  death's  dark  gate, 

And  bid  the  realms  of  light  and  life  adieu. 

I  hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  of  woe  ; 

I  see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore, 
The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below, 

Which  mortals  visit,  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,  ye  blooming  fields  !  ye  cheerful  plains  ! 

Enough  for  me  the  church-yard's  lonely  mound, 
Where  melancholy  with  still  silence  reigns, 

And  the  rank  grass  waves  o'er  the  cheerless  ground. 

There  let  me  wander  at  the  close  of  eve, 

When  sleep  sits  dewy  on  the  labourer's  eyes, 

The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave, 

And  talk  with  wisdom  where  my  Daphivs  lies. 


THE    MIRROR.  181 

There  let  me  sleep,  forgotten  in  the  clay, 

When  death  shall  shut  these  weary  aching  eyes, 

Rest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day, 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,  and  the  last  morn  arise. 
P 


No."  XXXVII.     TUESDAY,  JUNE  1. 


■Credula  vitam 


Spes  fovet,  et  melius  eras  fore  semper  ait.  Tibul. 

THE  following  essay  I  received  some  time  ago 
from  a  correspondent,  to  whom,  if  I  may  judge  from 
the  hand-writing,  I  was  once  before  indebted  for  an 
ingenious  communication. 

THE  experience  which  every  day  affords,  of  the 
mortifying  difference  between  those  ideal  pleasures 
which  we  conceive  to  flow  from  the  possession  of  cer- 
tain objects  of  our  wishes,  and  the  feelings  conse- 
quent upon  their  actual  attainment,  has  furnished  to 
most  moralists  a  text  for  declaiming  on  the  vanity 
of  human  pursuits,  the  folly  of  covetousness,  the  mad- 
ness of  ambition,  and  the  only  true  wisdom  of  being 
humbly  satisfied  with  the  lot  and  station  which  Pro- 
vidence has  assigned  us. 

It  will  not  appear  extraordinary,  that  those  moral- 
ists have  hitherto  laboured  in  vain,  when  it  is  con- 
sidered that  their  doctrine,  taken  in  the  latitude  in 
which  they  usually  preach  it,  would  cut  off  the  great- 
est source  of  our  happiness,  overthrow  every  social 
establishment,  and  is  nothing  less  than  an  attempt  to 
alter  the  nature  cf  man.  It  may  be  a  truth,  that  the 
balance  of  happiness  and  misery  is  much  the  same 


182  THE    MIRROR. 

in  most  conditions  of  life,  artd  consequently  that  no 
change  of  circumstances  will  either  greatly  enlarge 
the  one  or  diminish  the  other.  But,  while  we  know 
that,  to  attain  an  object  of  our  wishes,  or  to  change 
our  condition  is  not  to  increase  our  happiness,  we  feel, 
at  the  same  time,  that  the  pursuit  of  this  object,  and 
the  expectation  of  this  change,  can  increase  it  in  a 
very  sensible  degree.  It  is  by  hope  that  we  truly  ex- 
ist ;  our  only  enjoyment  is  the  expectation  of  some- 
thing which  we  do  not  possess  :  the  recollection  of 
the  past  serves  us  but  to  direct  and  regulate  those  ex- 
pectations i  the  present  is  employed  in  contemplating 
them  :  it  is  therefore  only  the  future  which  we  may 
be  properly  said  to  enjoy. 

A  philosopher  who  reasons  in  this  manner,  has  a 
much  more  powerful  incentive  to  cheerfulness  and 
contentment  of  mind,  than  what  is  furnished  by  that 
doctrine  which  inculcates  a  perpetual  warfare  with 
ourselves,  and  a  restraint  upon  the  strongest  feelings 
of  our  nature.  For,  while  he  feels  that  the  posses- 
sion of  the  object  of  his  most  earnest  desires  has 
given  him  far  less  pleasure  than  was  promised  by 
a  distant  view  of  it ;  he  is  consoled  by  reflecting  that 
the  expectation  of  this  object  has,  perhaps,  brighten- 
ed many  years  of  his  life,  enabled  him  to  toil  for  its 
attainment  with  vigour  and  alacrity,  to  discharge,  with 
honour,  his  part  in  society  ;  in  short,  has  given  him, 
in  reality,  as  substantial  happiness  as  human  nature  is 
capable  of  enjoying. 

Though  several  years  younger  than  Euphanor,  I 
have  been  long  acquainted  with  him.  He  is  now  in  his 
fifty -second  year;  an  age  when,  with  most  men,  the 
romantic  spirit  and  enthusiasm  of  youth,  have  long 
given  place  to  the  cool  and  steady  maxims  of  busi- 
ness and  the  world.  It  is,  however,  a  peculiarity  of 
my  friend's  disposition,  that  the  same  sanguine  tem- 
perament of  mind  which,  from  infancy,  has  attended 
him  through  life,  still  continues  to  actuate  him  as 
strongly  as  ever.     As  he   discovered,  very  early,  a 


THE    MIRROR.  183 

fomfhess  for  classical  learning,  his  father,  at  his  own 
desire,  advanced  his  patrimony  for  his  education  at 
the  univerc>y.  At  the  age  of  twenty  he  was  left 
without  a  shilling,  to  make  the  best  of  his  talents, 
In  any  way  he  thought  proper.  Certain  concurring 
circumstances,  rather  than  choice,  placed  him  as  an 
under-clerk  in  a  counting-house.  His  favourite  stu- 
dies were  here  totally  useless  ;  but,  while  he  gave 
to  business  th«  most  scrupulous  attention,  they  still, 
at  the  intervals  of  relaxation,  furnished  his  chief 
amusement.  It  would  be  equally  tedious  and  foreign 
to  my  purpose,  to  mark  minutely  the  steps  by  which 
Euphanor,  in  the  course  of  thirty  years  application 
to  business,  rose  to  be  master  of  the  moderate  for- 
tune of  fifteen  thousand  pounds.  My  friend  alw&ys 
considered  money  not  in  the  common  light,  as  merely 
the  end  of  labour,  but  as  the  means  of  purchasing 
certain  enjoyments,  which  his  fancy  had  pictured  as 
constituting  the  supreme  happiness  of  life. 

In  the  beginning  of  last  spring   I    received   from 
Euphanor  the  following  letter  : 

"  My  Dear  Sir, 
"  YOU,  who  are  familiar  with  my  disposition,  will 
"  not  be  surprised  at  a  piece  of  information,  which, 
"  I  doubt  not,  will  occasion  some  wonder  in  the  ge- 
"  neral  circle  of  my  acquaintance.  I  have  now  fairly 
"  begun  to  execute  that  resolution,  of  which  you  have 
"  long  heard  me  talk,  of  entirely  withdrawing  my- 
"  self  from  business.  You  know  with  what  ardour 
«  I  have  longed  for  that  period,  when  fortune  should 
"  ble^s  me  with  a  competence,  just  sufficient  to  pro- 
"  secute  my  favourite  scheme  of  retiring  to  the  coun- 
"  try.  It  was  that  darling  prospect  which  made  the 
"  toils  of  busing  (for  which,  God  knows,  I  never 
"  was  intended  by  nature,)  light,  and  even  pleasant 
"  to  me.  I  have  acquux:!,  by  honest  industry,  a  for- 
"  tune  equal  to   my  wishes.     These   were 'always 

VOL.    I.  R 


184  THE    MIRROR. 

"  moderate  ;  for  my  aim  was  not  wealth,  but  happi- 
11  ness.  Of  that,  indeed,  I  have  been  truly  covetous ; 
"  for  I  must  confess,  that,  for  these  thirty  years  past, 
"  I  have  never  laid  my  head  to  my  pillow,  without 
"  that  ardent  wish,  which  my  favourite  Horace  so 
u  beautifully  expresses  : 

**  O  rus !  quando  ego  te  aspiciam  ?  quandoque  licebit 
"  Nunc  veterum  libris,  nunc  somno  et  inertibus  horis, 
♦'  Ducere  sollicitse  juounda  oblivia  vitae  ?" 

"  Or  the  same  sentiment,  in  the  words  of  the  pen- 
M  sive  moral  Cowley  : 

"  Oh  fountains  !  when  in  you  shall  I 

"  Myself  eas'd  of  unpeaceful  thoughts  espy  ? 

"  Oh  fields !  oh  woods  !  when,  when  shall  I  be  made 

"  The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  ?" 

"  That  blissful  period,  my  dear  friend,  is  at  length 
u  arrived.  I  yesterday  made  a  formal  resignation  of 
"  all  concern  in  the  house,  in  favour  of  my  nephew, 
"  a  deserving  young  man,  who,  I  doubt  not,  will  have 
"  the  entire  benefit  of  those  numerous  connections 
"  with  persons  in  trade,  whose  good  opinion  his  uncle 
"  never,  to  his  knowledge,  forfeited. 

u  I  have  made  a  purchase  of  a  small  estate  in 

u  shire,  of  about  200   acres.     The  situation  is  de- 
lightfully romantic  ;" 


(( 


"Hie  gelidi  fontes,  hie  mollia  prata, 


-hie  nemus 

"  My  house  is  small,  but  wonderfully  commodious. 
u  It  is  embosomed  in  a  tall  grove  of  oak  and  elm, 
"  which  opens  only  to  the  south.  A  green  hill  rises 
"  behind  the  house,  partly  covered  with  furze,  and 
"  seamed  with  a  winding  sheep-path.  On  one  side 
"  is  an  irregular  garden,  or  rather  border  of  shrub- 


THE    MIRROR.  185 

"  bery,  adorning  the   sloping  bank  of  a  rivulet ;  but 

"  intermixed,  without  the  smallest  injury  to  its  beau- 

"  ty,  with   all  the   variety  of  herbs  for  the   kitchen. 

"  On  the  other  side,  a  little   more   remote,  but  still 

"  in  sight  of  the  house,  is  an  orchard  filled  with  ex- 

"  cellent  fruit-trees.     The  brook,  which  runs  through 

"  my  garden,  retires  into  a  hollow  dell,  shaded  with 

"  birch  and  hazle  copse,  and,  after  a  winding  course 

c*  of  half  a  mile,  joins  a  large  river.     These  are  the 

"  outlines  of  my  little  paradise. — And  now,  my  dear 

*•  friend,   what  have   I  more  to  wish,  but  that  you, 

*  and  a  very  few  others,  whose  souls  are  congenial 
"  to  my  own,  should  witness  my  happiness  ?  In  two 
"  days  hence,  I  bid  adieu  to  the  town,  a  long,  a  last 
"  adieu  1 

"  Farewell,  thou  busy  world  !  and  may 
"  We  never  meet  again  ! " 

"  The  remainder  of  my  life,  I  dedicate  to  those  pur- 
u  suits  in  which  the  best  and  wisest  of  men  did  not 
"  blush  to  employ  themselves  ;  the  delightful  occu- 
<w  pations  of  a  country  life,  which  Cicero  well  laid, 
"  and  after  him   Columella,    are  next  in  kindred  to 

*  true  philosophy.     What   charming  schemes  have 

*  I  already  formed  ;  what  luxurious  plans  of  sweet 
"  and  rational  entertainment !  But  these,  my  friend, 
"  you  must  approve  and  participate.  1  shall  look 
"  for  you  about  the  beginning  of  May,  when,  if  you 
"  can  spare  me  a  couple  of  months,  I  can  venture  to 
"  promise  that  time  will  not  linger  with  us.  I  am, 
"  with  much  regard,  yours,  8cc." 

As  I  am,  myself,  very  fond  of  the  country,  it  was 
with  considerable  regret  that  I  found  it  not  in  my 
power  to  accept  of  my  friend's  invitation  ;  an  unex- 
pected piece  of  business  having  detained  me  in  town 
during  the  greatest   part  of  the.  summer.     I  heard 


IS6  THE    MIKUOR. 

nothing  of  Eupbanor  till  about  nine  months  after, 
when  he  again  wrote  me  as  follows  : 

«  Mr  Dear  Sir, 
44  IT  was  a  sensible  mortification  to  me  not  to  have 

"  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last  summer  in 

"  shire,  when  I  should  have  been  much  the  better 
44  for  your  advice,  in  a  disagreeable  affair,  which,  I 
44  am  afraid,  will  occasion  my  paying  a  visit  to  town 
44  much  sooner  than  I  expected.  I  have  always  had 
4i  a  honor  at  going  to  law,  but  now  I  find  myself 
44  unavoidably  compelled  to  it.  Sir  Ralph  Surly, 
44  whose  estate  adjoins  to  my  little  property,  has,  for 
44  the  purpose  of  supplying  a  new  barley-mill,  turned 
"  aside  the  course  of  a  small  stream,  which  ran 
41  through  my  garden  and  inclosures,  and  which 
44  formed,  indeed,  their  greatest  ornament.  In  place 
44  of  a  beautiful  winding  rivulet,  with  a  variety  of 
44  fine  natural  falls,  there  is  nothing  but  a  dry  ditch, 
44  or  rather  crooked  gulph,  which  is  hideous  to  look 
44  at.  The  malice  of  this  procedure  is  sufficiently 
44  conspicuous,  when  I  tell  you,  that  there  is  another, 
4t  and  a  larger  stream,  in  the  same  grounds,  which 
44  I  have  offered  to  be  at  the  sole  expence  of  con- 
44  ducting  to  his  mill.  I  think  the  law  must  do  me 
44  justice.  At  any  rate,  it  is  impossible  tamely  to 
u  bear  such  an  injury.  I  shall  probably  see  you  in  a 
44  few  days.  To  say  the  truth,  my  dear  friend,  even 
14  before  this  last  mortification,  I  had  begun  to  find, 
44  that  the  expectations  I  had  formed  of  the  pleasures 
44  of  a  country-life  were  by  far  too  sanguine.  I  must 
44  confess,  that,  notwithstanding  the  high  relish  I 
44  have  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  I  have  often  felt, 
44  amid«t  the  most  romantic  scenes,  that  langour  of 
44  spirit,  which  nothing  but  society  can  dissipate. 
44  Even  when  occupied  with  my  favourite  studies,  I 
"  have  sometimes  thought,  with  the  bard  of  Mantua, 
«  that  the  ease  and  retirement  which  I  courted  were 


THE    MIRROR.  187 

44  rather  ignoble.  I  have  suffered  an  additional  dis- 
♦%  appointment  in  the  ideas  I  had  formed  of  the  cha- 
44  racters  of  the  country-people.  It  is  but  a  treache- 
44  rous  picture,  my  friend,  which  the  poets  give  us, 
44  of  their  innocence  and  honest  simplicity.  I  have 
"  met  with  some  instances  of  insincerity,  chicane, 
44  and  even  downright  knavery,  in  my  short  acquaint- 
44  ance  with  them,  that  have  quite  shocked  and 
44  mortified  me. 

44  Whether  I  shall  ever  again  enter  into  the  busy 
44  world  (a  small  concern  in  the  house,  without  al- 
44  lowing  my  name  to  appear,  would  perhaps  be 
*  some  amusement)  I  have  not  yet  determined. 
4k  Of  this,  and  other  matters,  we  shall  talk  fully 
♦4  at  meeting.  Meantime,  believe  me,  dear  Sir, 
u  yours, 

44  Euphanor." 

Euphanor  has  been,  for  this  month  past,  in  town, 
I  expected  to  have  found  him  peevish,  chagrined,  and 
out  of  humour  with  the  world.  But  in  this  I  was  dis- 
appointed. I  have  never  seen  my  friend  in  better 
health,  or  higher  spirits.  I  have  been  with  him  at 
several  convivial  meetings,  with  our  old  acquaint- 
ances, who  felt  equal  satisfaction  with  himself  at 
what  they  term  his  recovery.  He  has  actually  re- 
sumed a  small  share  in  trade,  and  purposes,  for  the 
future,  to  devote  one  half  of  the  year  to  business. 
His  counsel  have  given  him  assurance  of  gaining  his 
law  suit :  he  expects  in  a  few  months,  to  return  in 

triumph  to shire,  and  has  invited  all  his  friends 

to  be  present  at  a  Fete  Champetre  he  intends  to  cele- 
brate, on  the  restoration  of  his  beloved  rivulet  to  its 
wonted  channel. 

The  life  of  Euphanor  must  be  a  series  of  disap- 
pointments ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  must  consider  hint 
as  a.  happy  man. 

r  % 


188  THE   MIRROtt, 


No.  XXXVIII.     SATURDAY,  JUNE  5. 

n 
THE  following  letter  I  received  only  yesterday  ; 
but,  as  I  am  particularly  interested  in  every  project 
of  ingenious  men,  I  postponed  another  essay  which 
was  ready  for  publication,  and  put  my  printer  to 
considerable  inconvenience  to  get  it  ready  for  this 
day's  paper.  I  was  the  more  solicitous,  likewise,  to 
give  it  a  place  as  soon  after  my  35th  number  as  pos- 
sible, in  order  to  shew  my  impartiality.  This  paper 
(as  the  London  Gazetteer  says)  is  open  to  all  parties  ; 
with  this  proviso,  however,  which  is  exactly  the  re- 
verse of  the  terms  of  admission  into  the  Gazetteer, 
that  my  correspondents  do  not  write  politics. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 

IN  a  late  paper,  you  shewed  the  necessity  of  ac- 
commodating ourselves  to  the  temper  of  persons  with 
whom  wc  are  particularly  connected,  by  sometimes 
submitting  our  own  taste,  inclination,  and  opinions 
to  the  taste,  inclination,  and  opinions  of  those  per- 
sons. I  apprehend,  Sir,  you  might  have  carried 
your  idea  a  good  deal  farther,  and  have  prescribed  to 
us  the  same  receipt  for  happiness  in  our  intercourse 
not  only  with  our  wives  and  children,  but  with  our 
companions,  our  acquaintance,  in  short,  with  all  man- 
kind. 

But,  as  the  disposition  to  this  is  not  always  born 
with  one,  and  as  to  form  a  temper  is  not  so  easy  as 
to  regulate  a  behaviour,  it  is  the  business  of  masters 
in  the  art  of  politeness,  to  teach  people,  at  least  the 
better  sort  of  them,  to  counterfeit  as  much  of  this 
complacency  in  their  deportment  as  possible.  In 
this,  indeed,  they  begin  at  quite  the  different  end  of 
the  matter  from  you,  Sir  ;  complacency  to  husbands^ 
wives,  children,  and  relations,  they  leave  people  to 


THE    MIRROR.  189 

teach  themselves  ;  but  the  art  of  pleasing  every  body- 
else,  as  it  is  a  thing  of  much  greater  importance, 
they  take  proportionably  greater  pains  to  instil  into 
their  disciples. 

I  have,  for  some  time  past,  b«en  employed  in  re- 
ducing this  art  into  a  system,  and  have  some  thoughts 
of  opening  a  subscription  for  a  course  of  lectures  on 
the  subject.  To  qualify  myself  for  the  task,  I  have 
studied,  with  unwearied  attention,  the  letters  of  the 
immortal  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  which  I  intend  to  use 
as  my  text-book  on  this  occasion,  allowing  only  for 
the  difference  which  even  a  few  years  produce  in  an 
art  so  fluctuating  as  this.  Before  I  lodge  my  sub- 
scription-paper with  the  booksellers,  I  wish  to  give  a 
specimen  of  my  abilities  to  the  readers  of  the  Mir- 
ror ;  for  which  purpose  I  beg  the  favour  of  you  to 
insert  in  your  next  number  the  following  substance  of 
Simulation.  Our  noble  author,  indeed,  extends  his 
doctrine  to  the  length  of  dissimulation  only,  from 
which  he  distinguishes  Simulation  as  something  not 
quite  so  fair  and  honest.  Bwt,  for  my  part,  I  have 
not  sufficient  nicety  of  ideas  to  make  the  distinction, 
and  would  humbly  recommend  to  every  person  who 
wishes  to  be  thoroughly  well  bred,  not  to  confuse  his 
head  with  it.  Taking,  therefore,  the  shorter  word 
as  the  more  gentlemanlike,  I  proceeded  to  my  sub- 
ject of 

«  SIMULATION. 

«  SIMULATION  is  the  great  basis  of  the  art 
"  which  I  have  the  honour  to  teach.  I  shall  humbly 
"  endeavour  to  treat  this  branch  of  my  subject,  though 
"  much  less  ably,  yet  more  scientifically  than  my 
"  great  master,  by  reducing  it  into  a  form  like  that 
"  adopted  by  the  professors  of  the  other  sciences, 
"  and  even  borrowing  from  them  some  of  the  terms 
u  by  which  I  mean  to  illustrate  it. 


190  THE    MIRROR. 

44  This  rule  of  false  (to  adopt  an  algebraical  term) 
u  I  shall  divide  into  two  parts  ;  that  which  regards 
"  the  external  figure  of  the  man  or  woman  ;  and 
44  that  which  is  necessary  in  the  accomplishment  of 
44  the  rnmd,  and  its  seeming  developement  to  others. 
"*"  Fashion  may  be  termed  the  regulator  of  the 
44  first,  decorum  of  the  latter.  But  I  must  take  this 
M  opportuioity  of  informing  my  audience,  that  the  sig» 
44  nification  of  words,  when  applied  to  persons  of  con- 
"  dition,  is  often  quite  different  from  that  which  they 
44  are  understood  to  bear  in  the  ordinary  standard  of 
"  language.  With  such  persons  (if  I  may  be  allowed 
"'so  bold  an  expression)  it  may  often  be  the  fashion 
"  to  De  unfashionable,  and  decorum  to  act  against  all 
u  propriety  ;  good  breeding  may  consist  in  rudeness, 
<4  and  poHter.ess  in  being  very  impertinent.  This 
44  will  hold  in  the  passive,  as  well  as  in  the  active  of 
44  our  art  people  of  fashion  will  be  pleased  with 
44  such  treatment  from  people  of  fashion,  the  natural 
44  feelings  in  this,  as  in  the  other,  fine  arts,  giving 
44  way,  amongst  connoisseurs,  to  knowledge  and 
4t  taste. 

44  Having  made  this  preliminary  observation,  I  re- 
44  turn  to  my  subject  of  Simulation. 

44  It  will  be  found,  that  appearing  what  one  is  not, 
44  is,  in  both  divisions  of  my  subject,  the  criterion  of 
44  politeness.  The  man  who  is  rich  enough  to  afford 
44  fine  cloaths,-  is,  by  this  rule  of  false,  intitled  to 
44  wear  very  shabby  ones  ;  while  he  who  has  a  nar- 
44  row  fortune  is  to  be  dressed  in  the  brvcrse  ratio  to 
44  his  finances.  One  corollary  from  this  proposition 
44  is  obvious :  he  who  takes  off  his  suit  on  credit', 
44  and  has  neither  inclination  nor  ability  to  pay  for  it, 
44  is  to  be  dressed  the  most  expensively  of  the  three. 
44  The  same  rule  holds  in  houses,  dinners,  servants, 
44  horses,  equipages,  &c.  and  is  to  be  followed,  as 
44  far  as  the  law  will  allow,  even  the  length  of  bank- 
44  ruptcy,  or,  perhaps,  a  little  beyond  it. 


THE   MIRROR.  191 

tC  On  the  same  principle,  a  simple  Gentleman,  or 
"  Esquire,  must,  at  all  places  of  public  resort,  be 
<4  apparelled  like  a  Gentleman  or  Esquire.  A  Baro- 
"  net  may  take  the  liberty  of  a  dirty  shirt ;  a  Lord 
44  need  not  shew  any  shirt  at  all,  but  wear  a  hand- 
44  kerchief  round  his  neck  in  its  stead  ;  an  Earl  may 
44  add  to  all  this  a  bunch  of  uncombed  hair  hanging 
44  down  his  back  ;  and  a  Duke,  over  and  above  the 
*4  privileges  above  mentioned,  is  intitled  to  appear  in 
44  boots  and  buck-skin  breeches. 

44  Following  the  same  rule  of  inversion,  the  scholar 
44  of  a  provincial  dancing-master  must  bow  at  coming 
44  into,  and  going  out  of,  a  drawing  room,  and  that  pretty 
44  low  too.  The  pupil  of  Gallini  is  to  push  forward 
4i  with  the  rough  stride  of  a  porter,  and  make  only 
44  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head,  when  he  has  got 
44  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  At  going  out  of  it, 
M  he  is  to  take  no  notice  of  the  company  at  all. 

44  In  the  externals  of  the  female  world,  from  the 
44  great  complication  of  the  machine,  it  is  not  easy 
44  to  lay  down  precise  regulations.  Still,  however, 
44  the  rule  of  false  may  be  traced  as  the  governing 
44  principle.  It  is  very  feminine  to  wear  a  riding- 
44  habit  and  a  smart  cocked  hat  one  half  of  the  day  ; 
44  because  that  dress  approaches  nearer  to  the  mas- 
44  culine  apparel  than  any  other.  It  is  very  modest 
44  to  lay  open  the  greatest  part  of  the  neck  and  bosom 
44  to  the  view  of  the  beholders  ;  and  it  is  incumbent 
44  on  those  ladies,  who  occupy  the  front-row  of  a 
44  box  at  a  play,  to  wear  high  feathers,  and  to  wave 
44  them  more  unceasingly  than  any  other  ladies,  be- 
44  cause  otherwise  the  company  who  sit  behind  might 
44  be  supposed  to  have  some  desire  of  seeing  the 
44  stage.  Since  I  have  mentioned  the  theatre,  I  may 
44  re  mirk  (though  it  is  foreign  to  this  part  of  my 
44  discourse)  that,  in  the  most  affecting  scenes  of  a 
44  tragedy,  it  is  polite  to  laugh  ;  whereas,  in  the  or- 
44  dinary  detail  of  the  two  first  acts,  it  is  not  required 


192  THE     MIRROR. 

"  that  a  lady  should  make  any  greater  noise  than  to 
u  talk  aloud  to  every  one  around  her. 

"  Simulation  of  Person,  which  is  only,  indeed,  a 
"  sort  of  dress,  is  also  necessary  among  ladies  of 
"  fashion  Nature  is  to  be  falsified,  as  well  in  those 
"  parts  of  the  shape  which  she  has  left  small,  as  in 
"  those  she  has  made  large. 

"  The  Simulation  of  Face,  I  am  happy  to  find, 
"  from  an  examination  of  the  books  of  some  perfu- 
"  mers  and  colourmen  of  my  acquaintance,  is  daily 
"  gaining  ground  among  the  politer  females  of  this 
"  country.  But  it  has  hitherto  been  regulated  by 
"  principles  somewhat  different  from  those  which 
f  govern  other  parts  of  external  appearance,  laid 
"  down  in  the  beginning  of  this  paper,  as  it  is  gene- 
"  rally  practised  by  those  who  are  most  under  the 
"  necessity  of  practising  it.  I  would,  therefore,  hum- 
u  bly  recommend  to  that  beautiful  young  lady,  whom 
11  I  saw'at  the  last  assembly  of  the  season,  with  a 
«  coat  of  rouge  on  her  cheeks,  to  lay  it  aside  for 
M  these  three  or  four  years  at  least :  at  present,  it 
**  too  much  resembles  their  natural  colour  to  be  pro- 
"  per  for  her  to  wear — though,  on  second  thoughts, 
"  I  believe  I  may  retract  my  advice,  as  the  laying 
"  it  on  for  a  little  while  longer  will  reduce  her  skin 
"  to  that  dingy  appearance  which  the  rule  of  false 
"  allows  to  be  converted,  by  paint,  into  the  complex- 
«  ion  of  lilies  and  roses." 

The  second  part  of  my  observations  on  this  subject 
I  shall  send  you  at  some  future  period,  if  I  find  you 
so  far  approve  of  my  design  as  to  favour  this  with  a 
speedy  insertion. 

I  am,  &c. 

Simulator. 

V. 


THE    MIRROR.  t93 

No.  XXXIX.  TUESDAY,  JUNE  8. 

Non  miki  res,  s€d  me  rebus,  submittere  conor.  Hor. 

AS  it  is  the  business  of  the  politician  to  bestow  his 
chief  attention  on  the  encouragement  and  regulation 
of  those  members  of  the  community,  who  contribute 
most  to  the  strength  and  permanency  of  the  state  ; 
so  it  is  the  duty  of  the  moral  writer  to  employ  his 
principal  endeavours  to  regulate  and  correct  those 
affections  of  the  mind,  which,  when  carried  to  excess, 
often  obscure  the  most  deserving  characters,  though 
they  are  seldom  or  never  -to  be  found  among  the 
worthless. 

It  is  vain  to  think  of  reclaiming,  by  human  means, 
those  rooted  vices  which  proceed  from  a  depraved  or 
unfeeling  heart.  Avarice  is  not  to  be  overcome  by 
a  panegyric  on  generosity,  nor  cruelty  and  oppres- 
sion by  the  most  eloquent  display  of  the  beauties  of 
compassion  and  humanity.  The  moralist  speaks  to 
them  a  language  they  do  not  understand  ;  it  is  not 
therefore  surprising,  that  they  should  neither  be  con- 
vinced nor  reclaimed.  I  would  not  be  understood  to 
mean,  that  the  enormity  of  a  vice  should  free  it  from 
censure  :  on  the  contrary,  I  hold  such  glaring  devi- 
ations from  rectitude  the  most  proper  objects  for  the 
severest  lash  of  satire,  and  that  they  should  frequently 
be  held  up  to  public  view,  that,  if  the  guilty  cannot 
be  reclaimed,  the  wavering  may  be  confirmed,  and 
the  innocent  warned  to  avoid  the  danger. 

But  it  is  a  no  less  useful,  and  a  much  more  pleasing 
task,  to  endeavour  to  remove  the  veil  that  covers  the 
lustre  of  virtue,  and  to  point  out,  for  the  purpose  of 
amending,  those  errors  and  imperfections  which  tar- 
nish deserving  characters,  which  render  them  useless, 
in  some  cases  hurtful,  to  society. 


194  THE    MIRROR. 

Ajn  honest  ambition  for  that  fame  which  ought  t© 
follow  superior  talents,  employed  in  the  exercise  of 
virtue,  is  one  of  the  best  and  most  useful  passions  that 
can  take  root  in  the  mind  of  man  ;  and,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Roman  poet,  "  Terrarum  dominos  eve- 
hit  ad  Deos  ;*' — "  Heroes  lifts  to  gods."  But  when 
thir;  laudable  ambition  happens  to  be  joined  with  great 
delicacy  of  taste  and  sentiment,  it  is  often  the  source 
of  much  misery  and  uneasiness.  In  the  earlier  peri- 
ods @f  society,  before  mankind  are  corrupted  by  the 
excesses  of  luxury  and  refinement,  the  candidates  for 
fame  enter  the  lists  upon  equal  terms,  and  with  a 
reasonable  degree  of  confidence,  that  the  judgment 
of  their  fellow-citizens  will  give  the  preference  where 
it  is  due.  In  such  a  contest,  even  the  vanquished 
have  no  inconsiderable  share  of  glory  ;  and  that  vir- 
tue which  they  cultivate,  forbids  them  to  withhold 
their  respect  and  applause  from  the  superiority  by 
which  they  are  overcome.  Of  this,  the  first  ages  of 
the  Grecian  and  Roman  republics  are  proper  exam- 
ples, when  merit  was  the  only  road  to  fame,  because 
fame  was  the  only  reward  of  merit. 

Though  it  were  unjust  to  accuse  the  present  age 
of  being  totally  regardless  of  merit,  yet  this  will  not 
be  denied,  that  there  are  many  other  avenues  which 
lead  to  distinction,  many  other  qualities  by  which 
competitors  carry  away  a  prize,  that,  in  less  corrupt- 
ed times,  could  have  been  attained  only  by  a  steady 
perseverance  in  the  paths  of  virtue. 

When  a  man  of  acknowledged  honour  and  abilities, 
not  unconscious  of  his  worth,  and  possessed  of  those 
delicate  feelings  I  have  mentioned,  sees  himself  set 
aside,  and  obliged  to  give  way  to  the  worthless  and 
contemptible,  whose  vices  are  sometimes  the  means 
of  their  promotion,  he  is  too  apt  to  yield  to  disgust  or 
despair  ;  that  sensibility  which,  with  better  fortune, 
and  placed  in  a  more  favourable  situation*  would  have 
afforded  him  the  most  elegant  pleasures,  made  him 


THE    MIRROR, 


195 


the  delight  of  his  friends,  and  an  honour  to  his  conn 
try,  is  in  danger  of  changing  him  into  a  morose  an  . 
surly  misanthrope,  discontented  with  himself,  the 
world,  and  all  its  enjoyments. 

This  weakness  (and  I  think  it  a  grxat  one)  of  quar- 
relling with  the  world,  would  never  have  been  carri- 
ed the  length  I  have  lamented  in  some  of  my  friends, 
had  they  allowed  themselves  to  reflect  on  the  folly  of 
fupposing,  that  the  opinions  of  the  rest  of  mankind 
are  to  be  governed  by  the  standard  which  they  have 
been  pleased  to  erect,  had  they  considered  what  a 
state  of  langour  and  insipidity  would  be  produced,  if 
every  individual  should  have  marked  out  to  him  the 
rank  he  was  to  hold,  and  the  line  in  which  he  was  t» 
move,  without  any  danger  of  being  jostled  in  his  pro- 
gress. 

The  Author  of  Nature  has  diversified  the  mind  of 
man  with  different  and  contending  passions,  which 
are  brought  into  action  as  chance  or  circumstances 
direct,  or  as  he  is  pleased  to  order  in  the  wisdom  of 
his  providence.  Our  limited  faculties,  far  from  com- 
prehending the  universal  scale  of  being,  or  taking  in 
at  one  glance  what  is  best  and  fittest  for  the  purposes 
of  creation;  cannot  even  determine  the  best  mode  of 
governing  the  little  spot  that  surrounds  us. 

I  believe  most  men  have,  at  times,  wished  to  be 
creators,  possessed  of  the  power  of  moulding  the 
world  to  their  fancy  ;  but  they  would  act  more  wisely 
to  mould  their  own  prepossessions  and  prejudices  to 
the  standard  of  the  world,  which  may  be  done,  in 
every  age  and  situation,  without  transgressing  the 
bounds  of  the  most  rigid  virtue.  A  distaste  at  man- 
kind never  fails  to  produce  peevishness  and  discon- 
tent, the  most  unrelenting  tyrants  that  ever  swayed 
the  human  breast ;  that  cloud  which  they  cast  upon 
the  soul,  shuts  out  every  ray  that  should  warm  to 
manly  exertion,  and  hides,  in  the  bosom  of  indolence 
and  spleen,  virtues  formed  to  illumine  the  mind, 

VOL.   I.  S 


196  THE    MIRROR. 

I  must,  therefore,  earnestly  recommend  to  my 
readers  to  guard  against  the  first  approaches  of  mis- 
anthropy, by  opposing  reason  to  sentiment,  and  re- 
flecting on  the  injury  they  do  themselves  and  society, 
by  tamely  retreating  from  injustice.  The  passive  vir- 
tues onhy  are  fit  to  be  buried  in  a  cloister ;  the  firm 
and  active  mind  disdains  to  recede,  and  rises  upon 
opposition. 

The  cultivation  of  cheerfulness  and  good-humour, 
will  be  found  another  sovereign  antidote  to  this  mental 
disorder.  They  are  the  harbingers  of  virtue,  and 
produce  that  serenity  which  disposes  the  mind  to 
friendship,  love,  gratitude,  and  every  other  social  af- 
fection ;  they  make  us  contented  with  ourselves,  our 
friends,  and  our  situation,  and  expand  the  heart  to  all 
the  interests  of  humanity. 

T 


No.  XL.     SATURDAY,  JUNE  12. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 

ACCORDING  to  my  promise,  I  send  you  the  se- 
cond division  of  my  lecture  on  Simulation,  as  it  re- 
spects the  internal  part  of  the  science  of  politeness. 

"  Among  barbarous  nations,  it  has  been  observed, 
"  the  emotions  of  the  mind  are  not  more  violently 
"  felt  than  strongly  expressed.  Grief,  anger  and 
"  jealousy,  not  only  tear  the  heart,  but  disfigure  the 
"  countenance  ;  while  love,  joy  and  mirth,  have  their 
"  opposite  effects  on  the  soul,  and  are  visible,  by  op- 
"  posite  appearances,  in  the  aspect.  Now,  as  a  very 
"  refined  people  are  in  a  state  exactly  the  reverse  of 
"  a  very  rude  one,  it  follows,  that,  instead  of  allow- 


THK     MIRROR.  197 

ing  the  passions  thus  to  lord  it  over  their  minds 
and  faces,  it  behoves  them  to  mitigate  and  restrain 
those  violent  emotions,  both  in  feeling  and  appear- 
ance ;  the  latter,  at  least,  is  within  the  power  of  art 
and  education,  and  to  regulate  it  is  the  duty  of  a 
well-bred  person.  On  this  truly  philosophical  prin- 
ciple is  founded  that  ease,  indifference,  or  non- 
chalance, which  is  the  great  mark  of  a  modern 
man  of  fashion. 

"  That  instance  of  politeness  which  I  mentioned 
(somewhat  out  of  place  indeed)  in  the  first  part  of 
this  discourse,  the  conduct  of  a  fine  lady  at  a  tra- 
gedy, is  to  be  carried  into  situations  of  real  sorrow 
as  much  as  possible.  Indeed,  though  it  may  seem 
a  bold  assertion,  I  believe  the  art  of  putting  on  in- 
difference, about  the  real  object,  is  not  a  whit  more 
difficult  than  that  of  assuming  it  about  the  theatri- 
cal. I  have  known  several  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  have  acquired  the  first  in  perfection,  without 
being  able  to  execute  the  latter,  at  least  to  execute 
it  in  that  masterly  manner  which  marks  the  per- 
formances of  an  adept.  One  night,  last  winter,  I 
heard  Bob  Bustle  talking  from  a  front-box,  to  an 
acquaintance  in  the  pit,  about  the  death  of  their 
late  friend  Jack  Riot. — "  Riot  is  dead,  Tom  ; 
kick'd-this  morning,  egad  ["— "  Riot  dead  I  poor 
Jack  1  what  did  he  die  of?" — "  One  of  your  dam- 
nation apoplectics  kill'd  him  in  the  chucking  of  a 
bumper  ;  you  could  scarce  have  heard  him  w'hea- 
zle  ! — u  Damn'd  bad  that !  Jack  was  an  honest  fel- 
low ! — What  becomes  of  his  grey  poney  ? — "  The 
poney  is  mine." — Yours  1" — Why,  yes  ;  I  staked 
my  white  and  liver-coloured  bitch  Phillis  against 
the  grey  poney.  Jack's  life  to  mine  for  the  season." 

At  that  instant,  a  lady  entering  the  box  (it  was 

about  the  middle  of  the  fourth  act)  obliged  Bob  to 
shift  his  place  ;  he  sat  out  of  ear-shot  of  his  friend 
in  the  pit,  biting  his  naiis.  and  looking  towards  the 


198  THE   MIRROR. 

"  stage,  in  a  sort  of  nothing-to  doish  way,  just  as  the 
"  last  parting  scene  between  Jaffier  and  Belvidera  was 
"  going  on  there.  I  observed  (I  confess,  with  regret, 
"  for  he  is  one  of  my  favourite  pupils)  the  progress 
u  of  its  victory  over  Bob's  politeness.  He  first  grew 
"  attentive,  then  humm'd  a  tune,  then  grew  attentive 
"  again,  then  took  out  his  toothpick  case,  then  looked 
"  at  the  players  in  spite  of  him,  then  grew  serious, 

"  then  agitated till,  at  last,  he  was  fairly  beat  out 

"  of  his  ground,  and  obliged  to  take  shelter  behind 
"  Lady  Cockatoo's  head,  to  prevent  the  disgrace  of 
"  being  absolutely  seen  weeping. 

"  But,  to  return  from  this  digression. This  Si- 

"  mulation  of  indifference  in  affliction  is  equally  a 
'«  female  as  a  male  accomplishment.  On  the  death 
"  of  a  very,  very  near  relation,  a  husband,  for  in- 
"  stance,  cu&tom  has  established  a  practice,  which 
"  polite  people  have  not  yet  been  able  to  overcome  ; 
w  a  lady  must  stay  at  home,  and  play  at  cards  for  a 
*  week  or  two.  But  the  decease  of  any  one  more  dis- 
"  tant,  she  is  to  talk  of  as  a  matter  of  very  little  moment, 
"  except  when  it  happens  on  the  eve  of  an  assembly, 
M  a  ball,  or  a  ridotto  ;  at  such  seasons  she  is  allowed 
"  to  regret  it  as  a  very  unfortunate  accident.  This 
"  rule  of  deportment  extends  to  distresses  poignant 
"  indeed  ;  as,  in  perfect  good-breeding,  the  fall  of  a 
M  set  of  Dresden,  the  spilling  of  a  plate  of  soup  on 
M  a  new  brocade,  or  even  a  bad  run  of  cards,  is  to  be; 
4'  borne  with  as  equal  a  countenance  as  may  be. 

"  Anger,  the  second  passion  above  enumerated,  rs 
M  to  be  covered  with  the  same  cloak  of  ease  and  good 
"  manners  ;  injury,  if  of  a  deep  kind,  with  profes- 
"  sions  of  esteem  and  friendship.  Thus,  though  it 
k(  would  be  improper. to  squeeze  a  gentleman's  hand,. 
u  and  call  him  my  dear  Sir,  or  my  best  friend,  when 
u  we  mean  to  hit  him  a  slap  on  the  face,  or  to  throw  a 
"  bottle  at  his  head  ;  yet  it  is  perfectly  consistent 
"   with  politeness,  to  shew  him  all  those  marks  of  ci- 


THE   MIRROR.  109 

44  vility  and  kindness,  when  we  intend  to  strip  him  o/ 
44  his  fortune  at  play,  to  counterplot  him  at  an  elec- 
"  tion,  or  to  seduce  his  wife.  The  last-mentioned 
"  particular  should  naturally  lead  to  the  consideration 
44  of  jealousy  ;  but  on  this  it  is  needless  to  insist,  as, 
"  among  well-bred  people,  the  feeling  itself  is  quite 
44  in  disuse. 

u  Love  is  one  of  those  passions  which  politeness 
"  lays  us  under  a  particular  obligation  to  disguise,  as 
"  the  discovery  of  it  to  third  persons  is  peculiarly  of- 
"  fensive  and  disagreeable.  Therefore,  when  a  man 
"  happens  to  sit  by  a  tolerably  handsome  girl,  for 
44  whom  he  does  not  care  a  farthing,  he  is  at  liberty 
"  to  kiss  her  hand,  call  her  an  angel,  and  tell  her 
44  he  dies  for  her  ;  but,  if  he  has  a  real  tendrc  for  her, 
44  he  is  to  stare  in  her  face  with  a  broad  unfeeling 
44  look,  tell  her  she  looks  monstrous  ill  this  evening, 
•4  and  that  her  coiffeuse  has  pinned  her  cap  shocking- 
44  ly  awry.  From  not  attending  to  the  practice  of 
44  this  rule  amongst  people  of  fashion,  the  inferior 
44  world  has  been  led  to  imagine,  that  matrimony 
M  with  them  is  a  state  of  indifference  or  aversion  ; 
44  whereas,  in  truth,  the  appearances  from  which 
44  that  judgment  is  formed,  are  the  strongest  indica- 
44  tions  of  connubial  happiness  and  affection. 

44  On  the  subject  of  joy,  or  at  least  of  mirth,  that 
44  great  master  of  our  art,  my  Lord  Chesterfield,  has 
44  been  precise  in  his  directions.  He  does  not  allow 
44  of  laughter  at  all ;  by  which,  however,  he  is  to  be 
44  understood  as  only  precluding  that  exercise  as  a 
"  sign,  common  with  the  vulgar,  of  internal  satisfac- 
44  tion  :  it  is  by  no  means  to  be  reprobated  as  a  dis- 
14  guise  for  chagrin,  or  an  engine  of  wit ;  it  is,  in- 
44  deed  the  readiest  of  all  repartees,  and  will  often 
44  give  a  man  of  fashion  the  victory  over  an  inferior, 
44  with  every  talent,  but  that  of  assurance,  on  his 
«  side. 


s  2 


200  THF    MIRROR. 

"  As  the  passions  and  affections,  so  are  the  vir- 
u  tues  of  a  polite  man  to  be  carefully  concealed  or 
M  disguised.  In  this  particular,  our  art  goes  far  bey- 
il  ond  the  rules  of  philosophers,  or  the  precepts  of 
M  the  Bible  :  they  enjoined  men  not  to  boast  of  their 
**  virtues  ;  we  teach  them  to  brag  of  their  vices, 
"  which  is  certainly  a  much  sublimer  pitch  of  self- 
"  denial.  Besses,  the  merit  of  disinterestedness  lies 
u  altogether  on  fl\ir  side,  the  disciples  of  those  anti- 
"  quatcd  teachers  expecting,  as  they  confess,  a  re- 
"  ward  somewhere  ;  our  conduct  has  only  the  pure 
M  consciousness  of  acting  like  a  man  of  fashion  for 
"  its  recompence,  as  we  evidently  profit  nothing  by 
"  it  at  present,  and  the  idea  of  future  retribution, 
"  were  we  ever  to  admit  of  it,  is  rather  against  us." 

Such,  Mr.  Mirror,  is  the  substance  of  one  of  my 
\ectures,  which,  I  think,  promise  so  much  edification 

our  country  (yet  only  in  an  improving  state  with 
regard  to  the  higher  and  more  refined  parts  of  po- 
liteness) that  it  must  be  impossible  for  your  patriotism 
to  refuse  their  encouragement.  If  you  insert  this  in 
your  next  paper  (if  accompanied  with  some  commen- 
datory paragraphs  of  your  own,  so  much  the  better.) 
I  shall  take  care  to  present  you  with  a  dozen  admission 
tickets,  as  soon  as  the  number  of  my  subscribers  ena- 
bles me  to  begin  my  course. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 

V  Simulator. 


THE   MIRROR.  20l 

No  XLI.     TUESDAY,  JUNE  15. 

Sit  mihi  fas  audita  ioqui.  .  ,       Virc. 

PASSING  the  Exchange  a  few  days  ago  I  per- 
ceived a  little  before  me  a  short,  plump-looking  man, 
seeming  to  set  his  watch  by  St.  Giles's  clock,  which 
had  just  then  struck  two.  On  observing  him  a  little 
more  closely,  I  recognised  Mr.  Blubber,  with  whom  I 
had  become  acquainted  at  the  house  of  my  friend 
Umphraville's  cousin,  Mr.  Bearskin.  He  also  recol- 
lected me,  and  shaking  me  cordially  by  the  hand,  told 
me  he  was  just  returned  safe  from  his  journey  to  the 
Highlands,  and  had  been  regulating  his  watch  by  our 
town-clock,  as  he  found  the  sun  did  not  go  exactly 
in  the  Highlands  as  it  did  in  the  Low  country.  He 
added,  that,  if  I  would  come  and  eat  a  Welsh-rabbit, 
and  drink  a  glass  of  punch  with  him  and  his  family 
that  evening,  at  their  lodgings  hard  by,theywouldgive' 
me  an  account  of  their  expedition.  He  said,  they  found 
my  description  of  things  a  very  just  one  :  and  was 
pleased  to  add,  that  his  wife  and  daughters  had  taken 
a  very  great  liking  to  me  ever  since  the  day  that  we 
met  at  his  friend  Bearskin's.  After  this,  it  was  im- 
possible to  resist  his  invitation,  and  1  went  to  his 
lodgings  in  the  evening  accordingly,  where  I  found 
all  the  family  assembled,  except  Mr.  Edward,  whom 
they  accounted  for  in  the  history  of  their  expedi- 
tion. 

I  could  not  help  making  one  preliminary  observa- 
tion, that  it  was  much  too  early  in  the  season  for  view- 
ing the  country  to  advantage  ;  but  to  this  Mr.  Blub- 
ber had  a  very  satisfactory  answer;  they  were  resolved 
to  complete  their  tour  before  the  new  tax  upon  post- 
horses  should  be  put  in  execution. 

The  first  place  they  visited  after  they  left  Edin- 
totfgh  was  Carron,  which  Mr.    Blubber  seemed  to 


202  THE   MIRROR. 

prefer  to  any  place  he  had  seen  ;  but  the  ladies  did 
not  appear  to  have  relished  it  much.  The  mother 
said,  "  She  had  like  to  have  fell  into  a  fit  at  the  noise 
*  of  the  great  bellows.'*  Miss  Blubber  agreed,  that 
it  was  monstrous  frightful  indeed.  Miss  Betsy  had 
spoiled  her  petticoat  in  getting  in,  and  said  it  was  a 
nasty  place,  not  fit  for  genteel  people,  in  her  opinion. 
Blubber  put  on  his  wisest  face,  and  observed,  that 
women  did  not  know  the  use  of  them  things.  There 
was  much  the  same  difference  in  their  sentiments 
with  regard  to  the  Great  Canal  ;  Mr.  Blubber  took 
out  a  bit  of  paper,  on  which  he  had  marked  down 
the  lockage  duty  received  in  a  week  there  ;  he  shook 
his  head,  however,  and  said,  he  was  sorry  to  find  the 
shares  were  below  par. 

Of  Stirling,  the  young  ladies  remarked,  that  the 
view  from  the  castle  was  very  fine,  and  the  windings 
of  the  river  very  curious.  But  neither  of  them  had 
ever  been  at  Richmond.  Mrs.  Bubber,  who  had  been 
oftener  than  once  there,  told  us,  "  that  from  the  hill 
«  was  a  much  grander  prospect  ;  that  the  river 
"  Thames  made  two  twists  for  one  that  the  Forth 
**  made  at  Stirling  ;  besides,  there  was  a  wood  so 
"  charming  thick,  that,  unless  when  you  got  to  a 
M  rising  ground,  like  what  the  Star  and  Garter 
"  stands  on,  you  could  scarce  see  a  hundred  yards 
"  before  you." 

Tay mouth  seemed  to  strike  the  whole  family.  The 
number  and  beauty  of  the  temples  were  taken  parti- 
cular notice  of;  nor  was  the  trimness  of  the  walks 
and  hedges  without  commendation.  Miss  Befrey 
Blubber  declared  herself  charmed  with  the  shady 
walk  by  the  side  of  the  Tay,  and  remarked,  what  an 
excellent  fancy  it  was  to  shut  out  the  view  of  the  ri- 
ver, so  that  you  might  hear  the  stream  without  seeing 
it.  Mr.  Blubber,  however,  objected  to  the  vicinity 
of  the  hills,  and  Mrs.  Blubber  to  that  of  the  lake, 
•which  Bhe  was  sure  must  be  extremely  unwholesome. 


THE    MIRROR.  203 

To  this  circumstance  she  imputed  her  rheumatism, 
which  she  told  us,  "  had  been  very  troublesome  to 
"  her  the  first  night  she  lay'd  there  ;  but  that  she 
u  had  always  the  precaution  of  carrying  a  bottle  of 
M  Beaume  de  Vie  in  the  chaise,  and  that  a  dose  of  it 
"  had  effectually  cured  her." 

The  ladies  were  delighted  with  the  Hermitage. 
Mrs.  Blubber  confessed,  "  she  was  somewhat  afeard 
"  at  first  to  trust  herself  with  the  guide,  down  a  dark 
"  narrow  path,  to  the  Lord  knows  where  ;  but  then 
u  it  was  so  charming  when  he  let.  in  the  light  upon 
"  them.'* — "  Yes,  and  so  natural,"  said  her  eldest 
daughter,  "  with  the  flowers  growing  out  of  the  wall, 
"  and  the  Bear-skins  so  pure  osoft  for  the  Hermit  to 

"  sleep  on." "  And    their   garter-blue   colour  so 

"  lively  and  so  pretty,"  said  Miss  Betsy  ;  "  I  vow  I 

''•  could  have   stay'd  there  for  ever. You   wa'n't 

"  there,  Papa." ."No,"  replied  he,  rather  sul- 
lenly, "  but  I  saw  one  of  them  same  things  at  Dun- 
"  keld,  next  day." — The  young  ladies  declared  they 
were  quite  different  things,  and  that  no  judgment 
could  be  formed  of  the  one  from  the  other  ;  upon 
which  Mr.  Blubber  began  to  grow  angry  ;  and  Mrs. 
Blubber  interposing,  put  an  end  to  th»  question  ; 
whispering  me  at  the  same  time,  that  her  husband 
had  fallen  asleep,  after  a  hearty  dinner  at  the  inn 
near  Tay  mouth,  and  that  she  and  her  children  had 
gone  to  see  the  Hermitage  without  him.  I  was  far- 
ther informed,  that  Mr.  Edward  Blubber  had  left 
their  party  at  this  place,  having  gone  along  with  two 
English  gentlemen  whom  he  met  there,  to  see  a  great 
many  curiosities  farther  off  in  the  Highlands.  "  For 
"  my  part,"  said  Blubber,  "  though  I  was  told  it  was 
"  a  great  way  off,  and  over  terrible  mountains,  as 
"  indeed  we  could  perceive  them  to  be  from  the  win- 
"  dows,  I  did  not  care  to  hinder  his  going,  as  I  like 
w  to  see  spirit  in  a  young  man." 


204  THE   MIPRCR. 

The  rest  of  the  family  returned  by  the  way  of 
Eunkeld,  which  the  ladies  likewise  commended  as  a 
monstrous  pleasant  place.  Mr.  Blubber  dissented  a 
little,  saying,  «*  he  could  not  see  the  pleasure  of  al- 
"  ways  looking  at  the  same  things  ;  hills,  and  wood, 
4i  and  water,  over  and  over  again.  The  river  here, 
"  he  owned,  was  a  pretty  rural  thing  enough  ;  but, 
u  for  his  part  he  should  think  it  much  more  lively  if 
"  it  had  a  few  ships  and  lighters  on  it."  Miss  Blub- 
ber did  not  agree  with  him  as  to  the  ships  and  light- 
ers ;  but  she  confessed,  she  thought  a  little  company 
would  improve  it  a  good  deal.  Miss  Betsy  differed 
from  both,  and  declared,  she  relished  nothing  so 
much  as  solitude  and  retirement.  This  led  to  a  de- 
scription of  a  second  hermitage  they  had  visited  at 
this  place,  from  which,  and  some  of  the  grottos  ad- 
joining, Miss  Betsy  had  taken  down  some  sweet  co- 
pies of  verses,  as  she  called  them,  in  her  memoran- 
dum-book. The  fall  of  water  here  had  struck  the 
family  much.  Mrs.  Blubber  observed,  how  like  it 
was  to  the  cascade  at  Vauxhall ;  her  eldest  daughter 
remarked,  however,  that  the  fancy  of  looking  at  it 
through  panes  of  different  coloured  glass  in  the  Her- 
mitage-room, was  an  improvement  on  that  at  Spring- 
gardens. 

The  bridge  at  Perth  was  the  last  section  of  the 
family  journal  that  we  discoursed  on.  The  ladies 
had  inadvertently  crossed  it  in  the  carriage  to  see  the 
palace  at  Scone,  at  which  they  complained  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  ;  and  Mr.  Blubber  complained  of 
the  extravagance  of  the  toll  on  the  bridge,  which  he 
declared  was  higher  than  at  Blackfriars.  He  was 
assured,  however,  that  he  had  paid  no  more  than  the 
legal  charge,  by  his  landlord,  Mr.  Marshall,  at  whose 
house  he  received  some  consolation  from  an  excellent 
dinner,  and  a  bed,  he  said,  which  the  Lord  Mayor 
of  London  might  have  laid  on.  w  I  hope  there  is 
"  no  offence  (continued  Mr.  Blubber,  very  politely  ;) 


THE    MIRROR.  205 

"  as  I  understand  the  landlord  is  an  Englishman  ; 
"  but  at  the  King's  Arms,  I  met  with  the  only  real 
"  good  buttered  toast  that  I  have  seen  in  Scotland." 
But  however  various  were  the  remarks  of  the  fa- 
mily on  the  particulars  of  their  journey  in  detail,  I 
found  they  had  perfectly  settled  their  respective  opi- 
nions of  travelling  in  general.  The  ladies  had  form- 
ed their  conclusion,  that  it  was  monstrous  pleasant, 
and  the  gentleman  his,  that  it  was  monstrous  dear. 
I 


No.  XLII.     SATURDAY,  JUNE  12. 

WHEN  I.  first  undertook  this  publication,  it  was 
suggested  by  some  of  my  friends,  and,  indeed,  ac- 
corded entirely  with  my  own  ideas,  that  there  should 
be  nothing  of  religion  in  it.  There  is  a  sacredness 
in  the  subject  that  might  seem  profaned  by  its  intro- 
duction into  a  work,  which,  to  be  extensively  read, 
must  sometimes  be  ludicrous,  and  often  ironical.  This 
consideration  will  apply,  in  the  strongest  manner,  to 
any  thing  mystic  or  controversial  ;  but  it  may  per- 
haps, admit  of  an  exception,  when  religion  is  only 
introduced  as  a  feeling,  not  a  system,  as  appealing  to 
the  sentiments  of  the  heart,  not  to  the  disquisitions 
of  the  head.  The  following  stcry  holds  it  up  in  that 
light,  and  is  therefore,  I  think,  admissible  into  the 
Mirror.  It  was  sent  to  my  editor  as  a  translation 
from  the  French.  Of  this  my  readers  will  judge. 
Perhaps  they  might  be  apt  to  suspect,  without  any 
suggestion  from  me,  that  it  is  an  original,  not  a 
translation.  Indeed,  I  cannot  help  thinking,  that  it 
contains  in  it  much  of  that  picturesque  description, 
and  that   power  of  awakening  the   tender  feelings, 

• 


206  THE    MIRROR. 

which  so  remarkably  distinguish  the  composition  of 
a  gentleman  whose  writings  I  have  often  read  with 
pleasure.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  as  1  felt  myself 
interested  in  the  narrative,  and  believed  that  it  would 
aflect  my  readers  in  the  like  manner,  1  have  ventured 
to  give  it  entire  as  I  received  it,  though  it  will  take 
up  the  room  of  three  successive  papers. 
S 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror, 

Sir, 

"MORE  than  forty  years  ago,  an  English  philoso- 
pher, whose  works  have  since  been  read  and  admired 
by  all  Europe,  resided  at  a  little  town  in  France. 
Some  disappointments  in  his  native  country  had  first 
driven  him  abroad,  and  he  was  afterwards  induced 
to  remain  there,  from  having  found,  in  his  retreat, 
where  the  connections  even  of  nation  and  language 
were  avoided,  a  perfect  seclusion  and  retirement 
highly  favourable  to  the  developement  of  abstract 
subjects,  in  which  he  excelled  all  the  writers  of  his 
time. 

Perhaps,  in  the  structure  of  such  a  mind  as  Mr. 
■  — 's,  the  finer  and  more  delicate  sensibilities  are 
seldom  known  to  have  place,  or,  if  originally  implant- 
ed there,  are  in  a  great  measure  extinguished  by 
the  exertions  of  intense  study  and  profound  investi- 
gation. Hence  the  idea  of  philosophy  and  unfeeling- 
ness  being  united,  has  become  proverbial,  and  in 
common  language,  the  former  word  is  often  used  to 
express  the  latter. — Our  philosopher  has  been  cen- 
sured by  some,  as  deficient  in  warmth  and  feeling  : 
but  the  mildness  of  his  manners  has  been  allowed  by 
all ;  and  it  is  certain,  that,  if  he  was  not  easily  melted 
into  compassion,  it  was,  at  least,  not  difficult  to  awa- 
ken his  benevolence. 


* 


THE    MIRROR.  207 

One  morning,  while  he  sat  busied  in  those  specu- 
lations, which  afterwards  astonished  the  world,  an 
old  female  domestic,  who  served  him  for  a  house- 
keeper, brought  him  word,  that  an  elderly  gentleman 
and  his  daughter  had  arrived  in  the  village,  the  pre- 
ceding evening,  on  their  way  to  some  distant  country, 
and  that  the  father  had  been  suddenly  seized  in  the 
night  with  a  dangerous  disorder,  which  the  people 
of  the  inn  where  they  lodged  feared  would  prove 
mortal  :  that  she  had  been  sent  for,  as  having  some 
knowledge  in  medicine,  the  viilage-surgeon  being 
then  absent  ;  and  that  it  was  truly  piteous  to  see  the 
good  old  man,  who  seemed  not  so  much  afflicted  by 
his  own  distress    as  by   that  which  it   caused   to  his 

daughter, Her   mrister  laid   aside   the  volume  in 

his  hand,  and  broke  off  the  chain  of  ideas  it  had  in- 
spired. His  night-gown  was  exchanged  for  a  coat, 
and  he  followed  his  gouverncuitc  to  the  sick  man's 
apartment. 

'Twas   the   best  in  the   little  inn  where  they  lay, 

but  a  paltry  one  notwithstanding.     Mr. was 

obliged  to  stoop  as  he  entered  it.  It  was  floored  with 
earth,  and  above  were  the  joists  not  plastered,  and 
hung  with  cobwebs. — On  a  flock  bed,  at  one  end,  lay 
the  old  man  he  came  to  visit ;  at  the  foot  of  it  sat  his 
daughter.  She  was  dressed  in  a  clean  white  bed- 
gown ;  her  dark  locks  hung  loosely  over  it  as  she 
bent  forward,  watching  the  languid  looks  of  her  fa- 
ther.    Mr. and  his  housekeeper  had  stood 

some  moments  in  the  room  without  the  young  lady's 
being  sensible  of  their  entering  it.— .'•'  Mademoi- 
"  selle  1"  said  the  old  woman  at  last  in  a  soft  tone, 
— She  turned  and  shewed  one  of  the  finest  faces  in 
the  world. — It  was  touched,  not  spoiled  with  sorrow; 
and  when  she  perceived  a  stranger,  whom  the  old 
woman  now  introduced  to  her,  a  blush  at  first,  and 
then  the  gentle  ceremonial  of  native  politeness,  which 
the  affliction  of  the   time  tempered,  but  did  not  ex- 

VOL.    I.  t 


2C8  TH£    MIllKOR. 

tinguish,  crossed  it  for  a  moment,  and  changed  its 
expression.  'Twaa  sweetness  all,  howe\er,  and  our 
philosopher  felt  it  strongly.  It  was  not  a  time  for 
words  ;  he  offered  his  services  in  a  few  sincere  ones. 
**  Monsieur  lies  miserably  ill  here,"  said  the  gouver- 
nante  ;  "  if  he  could  possibly  be  moved  any  where." 
— . — "  If  he  could  be  moved  to  our  house,"  said 
her  master. — He  had  a  spare  bed  for  a  friend, 
and  there  was  a  garret  room  unoccupied,  next  to  the 
gouvernante's.  It  was  contrived  accordingly.  The 
scruples  of  the  stranger,  who  could  look  scruples, 
though  he  could  not  speak  them,  were  overcome,  and 
the  bashful  reluctance  6f  his  daughter  gave  way  to 
her  belief  of  its  use  to  her  father.  The  sick  man 
was  wrapt  in  blankets,  and  carried  across  the  street 
to  the  English  gentleman's.  The  old  woman  helped 
his  daughter  to  nurse  him  there.  The  surgeon,  who 
arrived  soon  after,  prescribed  a  little,  and  nature  did 
much  for  him  ;  in  a  week  he  was  able  to  thank  his 
benefactor. 

By  this  time  his  host  had  learned  the  name  and 
character  of  his  guest.  He  was  a  protestant  clergy- 
man of  Switzerland,  called  La  Roche,  a  widower,  who 
had  lately  buried  his  wife,  after  a  long  and  lingering 
illness,  for  which  travelling  had  been  prescribed,  and 
was  now  returning  home,  after  an  ineffectual  and 
melancholy  journey,  with  his  only  child,  the  daughter 
we  have  mentioned. 

He  was  a  devout  man,  as  became  his  profession. 
He  possessed  devotion  in  all  its  warmth,  but  with 
none  of  its  asperity  ;  I  mean  that  asperity. which  men, 

called  devout,   sometimes   indulge  in.     Mr. , 

though  he  felt  no  devotion,  never  quarrelled  with  it 
in  others.  His  gouvemante  joined  the  old  man  and 
his  daughter  in  the  prayers  and  thanksgivings  which 
they  put  up  on  his  recovery  ;  for  she,  too,  was  a  he- 
retic, in  the  phrase  of  the  village. The  philoso- 
pher walked  out,  with  his  long  staff  and  his  dog,  and 


THE    MIRROR.  20* 

left  them   to   their  prayers   and  thanksgivin^s.- 


Ci  My  master,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  alas  !  he  is 
"  not  a  Christian  ;  but  lie  is  the-  best  of  unbeliev- 
«  ers." "  Not  a  Christian  !" —exclaimed  Ma- 
demoiselle La  Roche,  "  yet  he  saved  my  lather  1 
"  Heaven  bless  him  for't ;  I  would  he  were  a  Chris- 
"  tianl"  "  There  is  a- pride  in  human  knowledge, 
"  my  child,"  s?'A  her  father,  "  which  often  blind 
4  men  to  the  sublime  truths  of  revelation  ;  hence 
u  opposers  of  Christianity  are  found  among  men  of 
"  virtuous  lives,  as  well  as  among  those  of  dissipated 
«'  and  licentious  characters.  Nay,  sometimes  I  have 
"  known  the  latter  more  easily  converted  to  the  true 
"  faith  than  the  former,  because  the  fume  of  passion 
<;  is  more  easily  dissipated  than  the  mist  of  false 
"  theory  and  delusive  speculation." — "But  Mr.—," 
said  his  daughter,  "  alas  1  my  father,  he  shall  be  a 

"  Christian  before  he  dies." She  was  interrupted 

by  the  arrival  of  their  landlord. He  took  her  hand 

with  an  air  of  kindness  : She  drew  it  away  from 

him  in  silence  ;  threw  down  her  eyes  to  the  ground, 

and  left  the  room. "  I  have  been  thanking  God," 

said  the  good  La  Roche,  "  for  my  recovery."  "  That 
"  is  right,"  replied  his  landlord — u  I  would  not  wish" 
continued  the  old  man,  hesitatingly,  "  to  think  otber- 
"  wise  ;  did  I  not  look  up  with  gratitude  to  that  Be- 
44  ing,  I.  should  barely  be  satisfied  with  my  recovery, 
"  as  a  continuation  of  life,  which,  it  may  be,  is  not  a 
"  real  good  : — Alas  1  I  may  live  to  wish  1  had  died, 
(i  that  you  had  left  me  to  die,  Sir,  instead  of  kindly 
"  relieving  me  (he  clasped  Mr.  — r-'s  hand  ;)  but, 
"  when  I  look  on  this  renovated  being  as  the  gift  of 
"  the  Almighty,  I  feel  a  far  different  sentiment — 
"  my  heart  dilates  with  gratitude  and  love  to  him  ; 
«'  it  is  prepared  for  doing  1  is  will,  not  as  a  duty  but 
"  as  a  pleasure,  and  regards  every  breach  of  it,  not 
44  with  disapprobation,  but  with  horror." — u  You  say 
•'  right,  my  dear  Sir,"  replied  the  philosopher  ;  4i  but 


2  20  THE    MIRK OR. 

"  you  arc  not  yet  re-  established  enough  to  talk  much 
**  — you  must  take  care  of  your  health,  and  neither 
"  study  nor  preach  for  some  time.  1  have  been 
"  thinking  over  a  scheme  that  struck  me  to-day, 
"  when  you  mentioned  your  intended  departure.  I 
t;  never  was  in  Switzerland  ;  1  have  a  great  mind  to 
"  accompany  your  daughter  and  you  into  that  coun- 
<»  try. — 1  will  help  to  take  care  of /ou  by  the  road  ; 
rt  for,  as  I  was  your  first  physician,  I  hold  myself 
"  responsible  for  your  cure."  La  Roche's  eyes  glis- 
tered at  the  proposal  ,  his  daughter  was  called  in  and 
told  of  it.  She  was  equally  pleased  with  her  father; 
for  they  really  loved  their  landlord — not  perhaps  the 
less  for  his  infidelity  ;  at  least  that  circumstance 
mixed  a  sort  of  pity  with  their  regard  for  him — their 
souls  were  not  of  a  mould  for  harsher  feelings  ;  hatred 
never  dwelt  in  them. 


No.  XLIII.     TUESDAY,  JUNE  22. 

CONTINUATION  OF  THE  STORY  OF  LA  ROCHE. 

THEY  travelled  by  short  stages  ;  for  the  philoso- 
pher was  as  good  as  his  word,  in  taking  care  that  the 
old  man  should  not  be  fatigued.  The  party  had  time 
to  be  well  acquainted  with  one  another,  and  their 
friendship  was  increased  by  acquaintance.  La  Roche 
found  a  degree  of  simplicity  and  gentleness  in  his 
companion,  which  is  not  always  annexed  to  the  cha- 
racter of  a  learned  or  a  wise  man.  His  daughter, 
who  was  prepared  to  be  afraid  of  him,  was  equally 
undeceived.  She  found  in  him  nothing  of  that  self- 
importance  which  superior  parts,  or  great  cultivation 
of  them,  is  apt  to  confer.     He  talked  of  every  thine; 


THE    MIRROR.  211 

but  philosophy  or  reiigion  ;  he  seemed  to  enjoy  every 
pleasure  and  amusement  of  ordinary  life,  and  to  be 
interested  in  the  most  common  topics  of  discourse  ; 
when  his  knowledge  or  learning  at  any  time  appeared, 
it  was  delivered  with  the  utmost  plainness,  and  with- 
out the  least  shadow  of  dogmatism. 

On  his  part,  he  was  charmed  with  the  society  of 
the  good  clergyman  and  his  lovely  daughter.  He 
found  in  them  the  guileless  manner  of  the  earliest 
times,  with  the  culture  and  accomplishment  of  the 
most  refined  ones.  Every  better  feeling,  warm  and 
vivid  ;  every  ungentle  one,  repressed  or  overcome. 
He  was  not  addicted  to  love  ;  but  he  felt  himself 
happy  in  being  the  friend  of  Mademoiselle  La  Roche, 
and  sometimes  envied  her  father  the  possession  of 
such  a  child. 

After  a  journey  of  eleven  days,  they  arrived  at  the 
dwelling  of  La  Roche.  It  was  situated  in  one  of 
those  valleys  of  the  canton  of  Berne,  where  nature 
stems  to  repose,  as  it  were,  in  quiet,  and  has  en- 
closed her  retreat  with    mountains  inaccessible. ■ 

A  stream,  that  spent  its  fury  in  the  hills  above,  ran  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  a  broken  water-fall  was  seen 
through  the  wood  that  covered  its  sides ;  below,  it 
circled  round  a  tufted  plain,  and  formed  a  little  lake 
in  front  of  a  village,  at  the  end  of  which  appeared 
the  spire  of  La  Roche's  church,  rising  above  a  clump 
of  beeches. 

Mr. enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  scene  ;  but, 

to  his  companions,  it  recalled  the  memory  of  a  wife 
and  parent  they  had  lost. — The  old  man's  sorrow  was 
silent ;  his  daughter  sobbed  and  wept.  Her  father 
took  her  hand,  kissed  it  twice,  pressed  it  to  his  bo- 
som, threw  up  his  eyes  to  heaven  ;  and,  having  wiped 
off  a  tear  that  was  just  about  to  drop  from  each,  be- 
£an  to  point  out  to  his  guest  some  of  the  most  strik- 
ing objects  which  the  prospect  afforded.     The  philo- 

t  2 


212  THE    jtflRROR. 

sopher  interpreted  all  this  ;  and  he  could  but  slightly 
censure  the  creed  from  which  it  arose. 

They  had  not  been  long  arrived,  when  a  number 
of  La  Roche's  parishioners,  who  had  heard  of  his  re- 
turn, came  to  the  house  to  see  and  welcome  him. 
The  honest  folks  were  awkward,  but  sincere,  in  their 
professions  of  regard.— They  made  some  attempts  of 
condolence  ; — it  was  tco  delicate  for  their  handling  ; 
but  La  Roche  took  it  in  good  part.  "  It  has  pleased 
God"— said  he  ;  and  they  saw  he  had  settled  the 
matter  with  himself. — Philosophy  could  hot  have 
done  so  much  with  a  thousand  words. 

It  was  now  evening,  and  the  good  peasants  were 
about  to  depart,  when  a  clock  was  heard  to  strike 
seven,  and  the  hour  was  followed  by  a  particular 
chime.  The  country  lolks,  who  had  come  to  wel- 
come their  pastor,  turned  their  looks  towards  him  at 
the  sound  ;  he  explained  their  meaning  to  his  guest. 

*  That  is  the  signal,"  said  he,  "  for  our  evening  ex- 

*  ercise  ;  this  is  one  of  the  nights  of  the  week  in 
*4  which  some  of  my  parishioners  are  wont  to  join 
11  in  it ;  a  little  rustic  saloon  serves  for  the  chapel  of 
"  our  family,  and  such  of  the  good  people  as  are 
<l  with  us  ;— if  you  chuse  rather  to  walk  out,  I  will 
i;  furnish  you  with  an  attendant  ;  or  here  are  a  fetf 
t;  old  books  that  may  aflbrd  you  some  entertainment 
"  within."—"  By  no  means,"  answered  the  philoso- 
pher ;  "  I-  will  attend  Ma'moiselle  at  her  devotions." 
— "  Ske  is  our  organist,"  said  La  Roche  ;  "  our 
w  neighbourhood  is  the  country  of  musical  mechan- 
**  ism  :  and  I  have  a  small  organ  fitted  up  for  the 
*'*  purpose  of  assisting  our  singing." — "  'Tis  an  addi- 
"  tional  inducement,"  replied  the  other  ;  and  they 
walked  into  the  room  together.  At  the  end  stood 
the  organ  mentioned  by  La  Roche  $  before  it  was  a 
curtain,  which  his  daughter  drew  aside,  and,  placing 
herself  on  a  seat  within,  and  drawing  the  curtain 
close,  so  as  to  save   her  the  awkwardness  of  an  ex» 


TriR  MIRROR.  313 

tiibition,  began  a  voluntary,  solemn  and  beautiful  in 

the  highest  degree.     Mr.  - — was  no  musician, 

but  he  was  not  altogether  insensible  to  music  ;  this 
fastened  on  his  mind  more  strongly,  from  its  beauty 
being  unexpected.  The  solemn  prelude  introduced  a 
hymn,  in  which  such  of  the  audience  as  could  sing* 
immediately  joined  ;  the  words  were  mostly  taken 
from  holy  writ ;  it  spoke  the  praises  of  God,  and  his 
care  of  good  men.     Something  was  said  of  the  death 

of  the  just,  of  such  as  die  in  the  Lord. The  organ 

Mas  touched  with  a  hand  less  firm  ; — it  paused,  it 
ceased  ; — and  the  sobbing  of  Ma'moiselle  La  Roche 
was  heard  in  its  stead.  Her  father  gave  a  sign  for 
stopping  the  psalmody,  and  rose  to  pray.  He  was 
discomposed  at  first,  and  his  voice  faultere"d  as  he 
spoke  ;  but  his  heart  was  in  his  words,  and  his 
warmth  overcame  his  tmbarrassment.  He  addressed 
a  Being  whom  he  loved,  and  he  spoke  for  those  he 
loved.  His  parishioners  catched  the  ardour  of  the 
good  old  man  ;  even  the  philosopher  felt  himself 
moved,  and  forgot,  for  a  moment,  to  think  why  he 
should  not. 

La  Roche's  religion  was  that  of  sentiment,  not 
theory,  and  his  guest  was  averse  from  disputation  ; 
their  discourse,  therefore,  did  not  lead  to  questions 
concerning  the  belief  of  either ;  yet  would  the  old 
man  sometimes  speak  of  his,  from  the  fullness  of  a 
heart  impressed  with  its  force,  and  wishing  to  spread 
the  pleasure  he  enjoyed  in  it.  The  ideas  of  his 
God,  and  his  Saviour,  were  so  congenial  to  his  miild* 
that  every  emotion  of  it  naturally  awaked  them.-  A 
philosopher  might  have  called  him  an  enthusiast ; 
but,  if  he  possessed  the  fervour  of  enthusiasts  ;  he 
was  guiltless  of  their  bigotry.  "  Our  Father  which 
44  art  in  heaven  V  might  the  good  man  say — for  he 
felt  it — and  all  mankind  were  his  brethren. 

4-  You  regret  my  friend,"  said  he  to  Mr. ---, 

"  when  my  daughter  and  I  talk  of  the  exquisite  pled- 


214  THE     MIRROR. 

"  sure  derived  from  music^  you  regret  your  want  of 
"  musical  powers  and  musical  feelings  ;  it  is  a  de- 
"  partment  of  soul,  you  say,  which  nature  has  almost 
U  denied  you.  which  from  the  effects  you  see  it  have 
cl  on  others,  you  are  sure  must  be  highly  delightful. 
«  — Why  should  not  the  same  thing  be  said  of  refi- 
"  gion  I  Trust"  me,  I  feel  it  in  the  same  way,  an 
"  energy,  an  inspiration,  which  I  would  not  lose  for 
"  all  the   blessings   of  sense,  or  enjoyments  of  the 

world  ;  yet,  so  far  from  lessening  my  relish  of  the 
"  pleasures  of  life,  methinks  I  feel  it  heighten  them 
"  all.  The  thought  of  receiving  it  from  God,  adds 
"  the  blessing  of  sentiment  to  that  of  sensation  in 
"  every  good  thing  I  possess  ;   and  when  calamities 

Ck  overtake   me and  I    have  had  my  share— it 

44  confers   a  dignity  on   my  affliction, so  lifts  me 

"  above  the  vorid. Man,  I  know,  is  but  a  worm 

"  — yet,  methinks,  I  am  then  allied  to  God  !" — It 
would  have  been  inhuman  in  our  philosopher  to  have 
cjouded,  even  with  a  doubt,  the  sunshine  of  this  be- 
,ief. 

His  discourse,  indeed,  was  very  remote  from  meta- 
physical disquisition,  or  religious  controversy.  Of 
all  men  I  ever  knew,  his  ordinary  conversation  was 
the  least  tinctured  with  pedantry,  or  liable  to  disserta- 
tion. With  La  Roche  and  his  daughter,  it  was  per- 
fectly familiar.  The  country  round  them,  the  man- 
ners of  the  village,  the  comparison  of  both  with  those 
of  England,  remarks  on  the  works  of  fatourite  au- 
thors, on  >  the  sentiments  they  conveyed,  and  the 
passions  they  excited,  with  many  other  topics  in 
which  there  was  an  equality,  or  alternate  advantage, 
among  the  speakers  were  the  subjects  they  talked  on. 
Their  hours  too  of  riding  and  walking  were  many, 

in  which    Mr. ,  as  a  stranger,  was  shewn 

the  remarkable  scenes  and  curiosities  of  the  country. 
They  would  sometimes  m:ke  little  expeditions  to 
contemplate,  in  different  attitudes,    those  astonishing 


THE    MIRHOK.  215 

mountains,  the  cliffs  of  which,  covered  with  eternal 
snows,  and  sometimes  shooting  into  fantastic  shapes, 
form  the  termination  of  most  of  the  Swiss  prospects. 
Our  philosopher  asked  many  questions  as  to  their  na- 
tural history  and  productions.  La  Roche  observed 
the  sublimity  of  the  ideas  which  the  view  of  their 
stupendous  summits,  inaccessible  to  mortal  foot,  was 
calculated  to  inspire,  which  naturally,  said  he,  leads 
the  mind  to  that  Being  by  whom  their  foundations 
were  laid. — "  They  are  not  seen  in  Flanders  i"  said 
Ma'moiselle  with  a  sigh.     u  That's  an  odd  remark," 

said  Mr. ,  smiling. She  blushed,  and  he 

enquired  no  farther. 

'Twas  with  regret  he  left  a  society  in  which  he 
found  himself  so  happy ;  but  he  settled  with  La  Roche 
and  his  daughter  a  plan  of  correspondence  ;  and  they 
took  his  promise,  that,  if  ever  he  came  within  fifty 
leagues  of  their  dwelling,  he  should  travel  those  fifty 
leagues  to  visit  them. 


No.  XLIV.     SATURDAY,  JUNE  26. 

CONCLUSION  OF  THE  STORY  OF  LA  ROCHE. 

ABOUT  three  years  after,  our  philosopher  was 
on  a  visit  at  Geneva  ;  the  promise  he  made  to  La 
Roche  and  his  daughter,  on  his  former  visit,  was  re- 
called tD  his  mind,  by  the  view  of  that  range  of 
mountains,  on  a  part  of  which  they  had  often  looked 
together.  There  was  a  reproach,  too,  conveyed  along 
with  the  recollection,  for  his  having  failed  to  write 
to  either  for  several  months  past.  The  truth  was, 
that  indolence  was  the  habit  most  natural  to  him.,  from 
which  he  was  not  easily  roused  by  the  claims  of  cor- 


216  THE    MIRROR. 

respondence  either  of  his  friends  or  of  his  enemies  -, 
when  the  latter  drew  their  pens  in  controversy,  they 
were  often  unanswered,  as  well  as  the  former.  While 
he  was  hesitating  about  a  visit  to  La  Roche,  which 
he  wished  to  make,  but  found  the  effort  rather  too 
much  for  him,  he  received  a  letter  frcvm  the  old  man,, 
which  had  been  forwarded  to  him  from  Paris,  where 
he  had  then  his  fixed  residence.  It  contained  a  gen- 
tle complaint  of  Mr.  's  wrant  of  punctuality,, 
but  an  assurance  of  continued  gratitude  for  his  former 
good  offices  ^  and,  as  a  friend  whom  the  writer  con- 
sidered interested  in  his  family,  it  informed  him  of 
the  approaching  nuptials  of  Ma'moiselle  La  Roche, 
with  a  young  man,  a  relation  of  her  own,  and  for- 
merly a  pupil  of  her  father's,  of  the  most  amiable  dis- 
position, and  respectable  character.  Attached  from 
their  earliest  years,  they  had  been  separated  by  his 
joining  one  of  the  subsidiary  regiments  of  the  Can- 
ton, then  in  the  service  of  a  foreign  power.  In  this 
situation,  he  had  distinguished  himself  as  much  for 
courage  and  military  skill,  as  for  the  other  endow- 
ments which  he  had  cultivated  at  home.  The  term 
of  his  service  was  now  expired,  and  they  expected 
him  to  return  in  a  few  weeks,  when  the  old  man 
hoped,  as  he  expressed  it  in  his  letter,  to  join  their 
hands,  and  see  them  happy  before  he  died. 

Our  philosopher  felt  himself  interested  in  this 
event ;  but  he  was  not,  perhaps,  altogether  so  happy 
in  the  tidings  of  Ma'moiselle  La  Roche's  marriage, 
as  her  father  supposed  him. — Not  that  he  was  ever  a 
lover  of  the  lady's  ;  but  he  thought  her  oue  of  the 
most  amiable  women  he  had  seen,  and  there  was 
something  in  the  idea  of  her  being  another's  for  ever, 
that  struck  him,  he  knew  not  why,  like  a  disappoint- 
ment.— After  some  little  speculation  on  the  matter, 
however,  he  could  lock  on  it  as  a  thing  fitting,  if  not 
quite  agreeable-,  and  determined  on  this  visit  to  sec 
his  old  friend  and  his  daughter  happy. 


THE    MIRROR.  217 

On  the  last  day  of  his  journey,  different  accidents 
had  retarded  his  progress ;  he  was  benighted  before 
he  reached  the  quarter,  in  which  La  Roche  resided. 
His  guide,  however,  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
road,  and  he  found  himself  at  last  in  view  of  the  lake, 
which  I  have  before  described,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  La  Roche's  dwelling.  A  light  gleamed  on  the 
water,  that  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  house  ;  it 
moved  slowly  along  as  he  proceeded  up  the  side  of 
the  lake,  and  at  last  he  saw  it  glimmer  through  the 
trees,  and  stop  at  some  distance  from  the  place  where 
he  then  was.  He  supposed  it  some  piece  of  bridal 
merriment,  and  pushed  on  his  horse,  that  he  might 
be  a  spectator  of  the  scene  ;  but  he  was  a  good  deal 
shocked,  on  approaching  the  spot,  to  find  it  proceeded 
from  the  torch  of  a  person  clothed  in  the  dress  of 
an  attendant  on  a  funeral,  and  accompanied  by  se- 
veral others,  who,  like  him,  seemed  to  have  been 
employed   in  the  rites  of  sepulture. 

On   Mr. 's  making   enquiry  who   was  the 

person  they  had  been  burying  ?  one  of  them,  with  an 
accent  more  mournful  than  is  common  to  their  pro- 
fession, answered,  "  then  you  knew  not  Mademoi- 
"  selle,  Sir  ? — you  never  beheld  a  lovelier" — "  La 
"  Roche  1"  exclaimed  he  in  reply — M  Alas  !  it  was 
'•  she  indeed  1" — The  appearance  of  surprize  and  grief 
which  his  countenance  assumed,  attracted  the  notice 
of  the  peasant  with  whom  he  talked.— He  came  up 
closer  to  Mr.  ■« —  ;  M  I  perceive,  Sir,  you  were 
"  acquainted  with  Mademoiselle  La  Roche." — "  Ac- 
*;  quainted  with  her  I — Good  God  i — when — !vow — . 
"  where  did  she  die  ? — Where  is  her  father  r" — 
u  She  died,  Sir,  of  heart-break,  I  believe  ;  the  young 
u  gentleman  to  whom  she  was  soon  to  have  been 
u  married,  was  killed  in  a  duel  by  a  French  officer, 
"  his  intimate  companion,  and  to  whom,  before  their 
"  quarrel,  he  had  often  done  the  greatest  favours. 
"  Her  worthy  father  bears  her  death,  as  he  has  often 


218  THE    MIRROR. 

"  told  us  a  Christian  should  ;  he  is  even  so  composed 
"  as  to  be  now  in  his  pulpit,  ready  to  deliver  a  few 
"  exhortations  to  his  parishioners,  as  is  the  custom 
"  with  us  on  such  occasions  : — follow  me,  Sir,  and 
"  you  shall  hear  him." — Ke  followed  the  man  with- 
out answering. 

The  church  was  dimly  lighted,  except  near  the 
pulpit,  where  the  venerable  La  Roche  was  seated. 
His  people  were  now  lifting  up  their  voices  in  a  psalm 
to  that  Being  whom  their  pastor  had  taught  them 
ever  to  bless  and  to  revere.  La  Roche  sat,  his  fi- 
gure bending  gently  forward,  his  eyes  half-closed, 
lifted  tip  in  silent  devotion.  A  lamp  placed  near 
him  threw  its  light  strong  on  his  head,  and  marked 
the  shadowy  lines  of  age  across  the  paleness  of  his 
brow,  thinly  covered  with  grey  hairs. 

The  music  ceased  ; — La  Roche  sat  for  a  moment, 
and  nature  wrung  a  few  tears  from  him.  His  peo- 
ple were  loud   in    their  grief.     Mr. was  not 

less  affected  than  tjiey. — La  Roche  arose. — "  Father 
"  of  Mercies  1"  said  he,  "  forgive  these  tears  ;  assist 
"  thy  servant  to  lift  up  his  soul  to  thee  ;  to  lift  to 
"  thee  the  souls  of  thy  people  I — My  friends  1  it  is 
u  good  so  to  do  :  at  all  seasons  it  is  good  ;  but  in 
"  the  days  of  our  distress,  what  a  privilege  it  is  ! 
"  Well  saith  the  sacred  book,  "  Trust  in  the  Lord  : 
«  at  ail  times  trust  in  the  Lord."  "  When  every 
"  other  support  fails  us,  when  the  fountains  of  world- 
"  ly  comfort  are  dried  up,  let  us  then  seek  those 
"  living  waters  which  flow  from  the  throne  of  God. — 
u  'Tis  only  from  the  belief  of  the  goodness  and  wis- 
"  dom  of  a  supreme*  Being,  that  our  calamities  can 
"  be  borne  in  that  manner  which  becomes  a  man. 
"  Human  wisdom  is  here  of  little  use  ;  for,  in  pro- 
"  portion  as  it  bestows  comfort,  it  represses  feeling, 
"  without  which  we  may  cease  to  be  hurt  by  cala- 
«  mity.  but  we  shall  also  cease  to  enjoy  happiness. — 
"  I  will   not  bid   you  be   insensible,  my  friends  i   I 


THE   MIRROR. 


219 


cannot.  I  cannot,  if  I  would  (his  tears  flowed  afresh) 
I  feel  too  much  myself,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
my  feelings  ;  but  therefore  may  I  the  more  wil- 
lingly be  heard  ;  therefore  have  I  prayed  God  to 
give  me  strength  to  speak  to  you  ;  to  direct  you 
to  him,  not  with  empty  words,  but  with  these  tears ; 
not  from  speculation,  but  from  experience, — that 
while  you  see  me  suffer,  you  may  know  also  my 
consolation. 

"  You  behold  the  mourner  of  his  only  child,  the 
last  earthly  stay  and  blessing  of  his  declining  years  I 
Such  a  child  too  ! — It  becomes  not  me  to  speak  of 
her  virtues  ;  yet  it  is  but  gratitude  to  mention 
them,  because  they  were  exerted  towards  my- 
self.  Not  many  days  ago  you  saw  her  young, 

beautiful,  virtuous,  and  happy  ;■— ye  who  are  pa- 
rents will  judge  of  my  felicity  then, — ye  will  judge 
of  my  affliction  now.  But  I  look  towards  him  who 
struck  me  ;  I  see  the  hand  of  a  father  amidst  the 

chastenings  of  my  God. Oh  !  could  I  make  you 

feel  what  it  is  to  pour  out  the  heart,  when  it  is 
pressed  down  with  many  sorrows,  to  pour  it  out 
with  confidence  to  him,  in  whose  hands  are  life  and 
death,  on  whose  power  awaits  all  that  the  first  en- 
joys, and  in  contemplation  of  whom  disappears  all 
that  the  last  can  inflict '. — For  we  are  not  as  those 
who  die  without  hope  ;  we  know  that  our  Re- 
deemer liveth — that  we  shall  live  with  him,  with 
our  friends  his  servants,  in  that  blessed  land  where 
sorrow  is  unknown,  and  happiness  is  endless  as  it 
is  perfect. — Go  then,  mourn  not  for  me  ;  I  have 
not  lost  my  child  :  but  a  little  while,  and  we  shall 
meet  again,  never  to  be  separated  — But  ye  are 
also  nay  children  :  would  ye  that  I  should  not 
grieve  without  comfort  ? — So  live  as  she  lived  ; 
that,  when  your  death  cometh,  it  may  be  the  death 
of  the  righteous,  and  your  latter  end  like  his." 

VOL.    I.  U 


220  THE    MIRROR. 

Such  was  the  exhortation  of  La  Roche  ;  hU  audi- 
ence answered  it  with  their  tears.  The  good  old 
man  had  dried  up  his  at  the  altar  of  the  Lord  ;  his 
countenance  had  lost  its  sadness,   and  assumed  the 

glow  of  faith  and  of  hope. — Mr. followed  him 

into  his  house. — The  inspiration  of  the  pulpit  was 
past ;  at  sight  of  him,  the  scene  they  last  met  in 
rushed  again  on  his  mind  ;  La  Roche  threw  his  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  watered  it  with  his  tears.  The 
other  was  equally  affected ;  they  went  together,  in 
silence,  into  the  parlour  where  the  evening  service 
was  wont  to  be  performed. — The  curtains  of  the  or- 
gan were  open  :  La  Roche  started  back  at  the  sight, 
"  Oh  1  my  friend  V  said  he,  and  his  tears  burst 
forth  again.  Mr. . had  now  recollected  him- 
self ;  he  stept  forward,  and  drew  the  curtains  close — 
the  old  man  wiped  off  his  tears,  and  taking  his  friend's 
hand,  "  You  see  my  weakness,"  said  he,  "  'tis  the 
•*  weakness  of   humanity  ;  but   my  comfort  is    not 

u  therefore  lost." "  I  heard  you,"  said  the  other, 

"  in  the  pulpit  ;  I  rejoice  that  such  consolation  is 

u  your's." **  It  is,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "  and  I 

"  trust  I  shall  ever  hold  it  fast ; — if  there  are  any 
"  who  doubt  our  faith?  let  them  think  of  what  im- 
"  portance  religion  is  to  calamity,  and  forbear  to 
«'  weaken  its  force  ;  if  they  cannot  restore  our  hap- 
"  piness,  let  them  not  take  away  the  solace  of  our 
«  affliction." 

Mr.  's  heart   was   smitten  ; — and  I    have 

heard  him,  long  after,  confess  that  there  were  mo- 
ments when  the  remembrance  overcame  him  even 
to  weakness  ;  when,  amidst  all  the  pleasures  of  phi- 
losophical discovery,  and  the  pride  of  literary  fame, 
he  recalled  to  his  mind  the  venerable  figure  of  the 
good  La  Roche,  and  wished  that  he  had  never 
doubted. 


THE    MIRROR.  221 


No.  XLV.     TUESDAY,  JUNE  29. 

IS  he  a  man  of  fashion  ?  is  the  usual  question  on 
the  appearance  of  a  stranger,  or  the  mention  of  a  per- 
son with  whom  we  are  unacquainted.  But,  though 
this  phrase  be  in  the  mouth  of  every  body,  I  have 
often  found  people  puzzled  when  they  attempted  to 
give  an  idea  of  what  they  meant  by  it ;  and,  indeed, 
so  many  and  so  various  are  the  qualities  that  enter 
into  the  composition  of  a  modern  man  of  fashion,  that 
it  is  difficult  to  give  an  accurate  definition  or  a  just 
description  of  him.  Perhaps  he  may,  in  the  general, 
be  denned,  a  being  who  possesses  some  quality  or 
talent  which  intitles  him  to  be  received  into  every 
company  ;  to  make  one  in  all  parties,  and  to  asso- 
ciate with  persons  of  the  highest  rank  and  the  first 
distinction. 

If  this  definition  be  just,  it  may  be  amusing  to 
consider  the  different  ideas  that  have  prevailed,  at 
different  times,  with  regard  to  the  qualities  requi- 
site to  constitute  a  man  of  fashion.  Not  to  go  far- 
ther back,  we  are  told  by  Lord  Clarendon,  that,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  the  men  of  rank 
were  distinguished  by  a  stately  deportment,  a  dig- 
nified manner,  and  a  certain  stiffness  of  ceremonial, 
admirably  calculated  to  keep  their  inferiors  at  a  pro- 
per distance.  In  those  days,  when  pride  of  family 
prevailed  so  universally,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  that  no 
circumstance  could  atone  for  the  want  of  birth.  Nei- 
ther riches  nor  genius,  knowledge  nor  ability,  could 
then  have  entitled  their  possessor  to  hold  the  rank  of 
a  man  of  fashion,  unless  he  fortunately  had  sprung 
from  an  ancient  and  honourable  family.  The  im- 
mense fortunes  which  we  are  now  accustomed  to 
see  acquired,  almost  instantaneously,  were  then  un- 
known. In  imagination,  however,  we  may  fancy  what 
an    awkward  appearance   a  modern  nabob,  or  con- 


222  THE   MIRROR. 

tractor,  would  have  made  in  a  circle  of  these  proud 
and  high-minded  nobles.  With  all  his  wealth,  he 
would  have  been  treated  as  a  being  of  a  different 
species  ;  and  any  attempt  to  imitate  the  manners 
of  the  great,  or  to  rival  them  in  expence  and  splen- 
dour, would  only  have  served  to  expose  him  the  more 
to  ridicule  and  contempt. 

As  riches,  however,  increased  in  the  nation,  men 
became  more  and  more  sensible  of  the  solid  advan- 
tages they  brought  along  with  them  ;  and  the  pride 
cf  birth  gradually  relaxing,  monied  men  rose  pro- 
portionally into  estimation.  The  haughty  lord,  or 
prcud  country  gentleman,  no  longer  scrupled  to  give 
Lis  daughter  in  marriage  to  an  opulent  citizen,  or  to 
repair  his  ruined  fortune  by  uniting  the  heir  of  his 
title  or  family  with  a  rich  heiress,  though  cf  plebeian 
extraction.  These  connections  daily  becoming  more 
common,  removed,  in  some  measure,  the  distinction 
of  rank  ;  and  every  man,  possessed  of  a  certain  for- 
tune, came  to  think  himself  intitled  to  be  treated  as 
a  gentleman,  and  received  as  a  man  of  fashion.  A- 
bove  all,  the  happy  expedient  of  purchasing  Seats  in 
Parliament,  tended  to  add  weight  and  consideration 
to  what  came  to  be  called  the  Monied  Interest. 
WJien  a  person,  who  had  suddenly  acquired  an  en- 
ormous fortune,  could  find  eight  or  ten  proper,  well- 
dressed,  gentlemen-like  figures,  ready  to  vote  for 
him,  as  his  proxies,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  it  is 
not  surprising,  that,  in  his  turn,  he  should  come  to 
look  down  on  the  heirs  of  old  established  families, 
who  could  neither  cope  with  him  in  influence  at  court, 
nor  vie  with  him  in  show  and  ostentation. 

About  the  beginning  of  this  century,  there  seems 
to  have  been  an  intermediate,  though  short  interval, 
when  genius,  knowledge,  talents,  and  elegant  accom- 
plishments, intitled  their  possessor  to  hold  the  rank 
of  a  man  of  fashion,  and  were  even  deemed  essentially 
requisite   to   form  that  character.     The   society   of 


THE    MIRROR.  225 

Swift,  Pope,  Gay,  and  Prior  was  courted  by  all ;  and, 
without  the  advantages  of  high,  birth,  or  great  for- 
tune, an  Addison  and  a  Craggs  attained  the  first  offi- 
ces in  the  state. 

In  the  present  happy  and  enlightened  age,  neither 
birth  nor  fortune,  superior  talents,  nor  superior  abili- 
ties, are  requisite  to  form  a  man  of  fashion.  On  the 
contrary,  all  these  advantages  united  are  insufficient 
to  entitle  their  owners  to  hold  that  rank,  while  we 
daily  see  numbers  received  as  men  of  fashion,  though 
sprung  from  the  meanest  of  the  people  and  though 
destitute  of  every  grace,  of  every  polite  accomplish- 
ment, and  of  all  pretensions  to  genius  or  ability. 

This,  I  confess,  I  have  often  considered  as  one  of 
the  greatest  and  most  important  improvements  in 
modern  manners.  Formerly  it  behoved  every  person 
born  in  obscurity,  who  wished  to  rise  into  eminence, 
either  to  acquire  wealth  by  industry  or  frugality,  or 
following  a  still  more  laborious  and  difficult  pursuit, 
to  distinguish  himself  by  the  exertion  of  superior  ta- 
lents in  the  field  or  in  the  senate.  But  now  nothing 
of  all  this  is  necessary.  A  certain  degree  of  know- 
ledge the  man  of  fashion  must  indeed  possess.  He 
must  be  master  of  the  principles  contained  in  the  ce- 
lebrated treatise  of  Mr.  Hoyle  ;  he  must  know  the 
chances  of  Hazard  ;  he  must  be  able  to  decide  on  any 
dispute  with  regard  to  the  form  of  a  hat,  or  the  fashion 
of  a  buckle  ;  and  he  must  be  able  to  tell  my  Lady 
Duchess,  whether  Marechalle  powder  suits  best  a 
brown  or  a  fair  complexion. 

From  the  equipage,  the  dress,  the  external  show 
of  a  modern  man  of  fashion,  a  superficial  observer 
might  be  apt  to  think  that  fortune,  at  least,  is  a  ne- 
cessary article  ;  but  a  proper  knowledge  of  the  world 
leaches  us  the  contrary.  A  man  of  fashion  must, 
indeed,  live  as  if  he  were  a  man  of  fortune.  He  must 
rival  the  wealthiest  in  expence  of  every  kind  ;  he 
must  push  to  excess  every  species  of  extravagant  dis- 
u  2 


224  THE    MIRROR. 

sipation  ;  and  he  must  game  for  more  money  than  he 
can  pay.  But  all  these  things  a  man  of  fashion  can 
do,  without  possessing  any  visible  revenue  whatever. 
This,  though  perhaps  the  most  important,  is  not  the 
only  advantage  which  the  man  of  fashion  enjoys  over 
the  rest  of  mankind.  Not  .o  mention  that  he  may 
seduce  the  daughter,  and  corrupt  the  wife  of  his 
friend,  he  may  also,  with  perfect  honour,  rob  the  son 
of  that  friend  of  his  whole  fortune  in  an  evening  ; 
and  it  is  altogether  immaterial  that  the  one  party  was 
intoxicated,  and  the  other  sober,  that  the  one  was 
skilled  in  the  game,  and  the  other  ignorant  of  it  ; 
for,  if  a  young  man  will  insist  upon  p'aying  in  such 
circumstances,  who  but  himself  can  be  blamed  for 
the  consequences  ? 

The  superiority  enjoyed  by  a  man  of  fashion,  in 
his  ordinary  dealings  and  intercourse  with  mankind, 
is  still  more  marked.  He  may,  without  any  impeach- 
ment on  his  character  and  with  the  nicest  regard  to 
his  honour,  do  things  which,  in  a  common  man, 
would  be  deemed  infamous  Thus  the  man  of 
fashion  may  live  in  luxury  and  splendour,  while  his 
creditors  are  starving  in  the  streets,  or  rotting  in  a 
jail  ;  and,  should  they  attempt  to  enforce  the  laws  of 
their  country  against  him,  he  would  be  entitled  to 
complain  of  it  as  a  gross  violation  of  the  respect  that 
is  due  to  his  person  and  character. 

The  last  time  my  friend  Mr.  Umphraville  was  in 
town,  I  was  not  a  little  amused  with  his  remarks  on 
the  men  of  fashion  about  this  city,  and  on  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  our  manners  since  the  time 
he  had  retired  from  the  world.  When  we  met  a 
young  man  gaily  dressed,  lolling  in  his  chariot,  he 
seldom  failed  to  ask,  "  What  young  lord  is  that  ?*' 
One  day  we  were  invited  to  dine  with  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, who  had  married  a  lady  passionately  fond  of  the 
ton,  and  of  every  thing  that  had  the  appearance  of 
tashion.     We  wTent  at  the  common  hour  of  dining} 


THE     MIRROK.  225 

and  after  waiting  some  time,  our  host  (who  had  in- 
formed us  that  he  would  invite  nobody  else,  that  we 
might  talk  over  old  stories  without  interruption)  pro- 
posed to  order  dinner  ;  on  which  his  lady,  after  chid- 
ing his  impatience,  and  observing  that  nobody  kept 
such   unfashionable   hours,   said,   she   expected  Mr. 

,  and  another  friend,   whom  she  had  met  at  the 

play  the  evening  before,  and   had   engaged   to   dine 
with  her  that  day.     After  waiting  a  full  hour  longer, 
the  noise  of  a   carriage,  and  a  loud  rap  at  the  door, 
announced  the  arrival  of  the  expected  guests.     They 
entered,  dressed  in  the  very  pink  of  the  mode  ;  and 
neither  my  friend's  dress  nor  mine  being  calculated  to 
inspire  them  with  respect,  they  brushed  past  us,  and 
addressed  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  two  young  ladies 
wh«  were  with  her,  in  a  strain  of  coarse  familiarity, 
so  different  from  the  distant  and  respectful  manner  to 
which  Mr.  Umphraville  had  been  accustomed,  that 
I    could    plainly   discover  he   was   greatly   shocked 
with  it.     When  we  were  called   to  dinner,   the  two 
young  gentlemen  seated  themselves  on  each  hand  of 
the  lady  of  the  house,  and  there  ingrossed  the  whole 
conversation,  if  a  recital   of  the  particulars  of  their 
adventures  at  the  tavern  the  evening  before  deserved 
that  name.     For  a  long  time,  every  attempt  made  by 
our  landlord  to  enter  into  discourse  with  Mr.  Umphra- 
ville and  me  proved  abortive.     At  last,  taking  advan- 
tage  of  an   accidental  pause,  he   congratulated  my 
friend  on  the  conquest  of  Pondicherry.     The  latter, 
drawing  his  brows  together,   and  shaking  his   head 
with  an  expression  of  dissent,  observed,  that  although 
he  was  always  pleased  with  the  exertions  of  our  coun- 
trymen, and  the  bravery  of  our  troops,  he  could  not 
receive  any  satisfaction  from  an  Indian  conquest.     He 
then  began  an  harangue  on  the  corruption  of  manners 
— the  evils  of  luxury — the  fatal   consequences  of  a 
sudden  influx  of  wealth — and  would  I  am  persuaded, 
"ere  he  had  done,  have  traced  the  loss  of  liberty  in 


226  THK    MIRROR. 

Greece  and  the  fall  of  Rome  to  Asiatic  connections, 
had  he  not  been,  all  at  once  cut  short  with  the  excla- 
mation of  "  Damn  it,  Jack,  how  does  the  old  boy  do 
*'  to-day  ?  I  hope  he  begins  to  get  better. — Nay, 
«4  pr'ythee  don't  look  grave  ;  you  know  I  am  too 
44  much  your  friend  to  wish  him  to  hold  out  long  ; 
"  but  if  he  tip  before  Tuesday  at  twelve  o'clock,  I 

"  shall  lose  a  hundred  to   Dick  Hazard. After 

44  that  time,  as  soon  as  you  please." "  Don't  you 

44  think,  Madam,"  (addressing  himself  to  one  of  the 
young  ladies)  "  that  when  an  old  fellow  has  been  scrap- 
4i  ing  money  together  with  both  hands  for  forty  years, 
"  the  civilest  thing  he  can  do  is  to  die,  and  leave  it  to 
44  a  son,  who  has  spirit  to  spend  it  ?"  Without  utter- 
ing a  word,  the  lady  gave  one  look,  that,  had  he  been 
able  to  translate  it  into  language,  must,  for  a  time  at 
least,  have  checked  his  vivacity.  But  the  rebuke  be- 
ing too  delicate  to  make  any  impression  on  our  hero, 
he  ran  on  in  the  same  strain  ;  and  being  properly  sup- 
ported by  his  companion,  effectually  excluded  the  dis- 
course of  every  body  else.  Umphraviile  did  not  once 
again  attempt  to  open  his  mouth  ;  and,  for  my  own 
part,  as  I  had  heard  enough  of  the  conversation,  his 
countenance  served  as  a  sufficient  fund  of  entertain- 
ment for  me.  A  painter,  who  wished  t©  express  in- 
dignation, contempt,  and  pity,  blended  together,  could 
not  have  found  a  finer  study. 

At  length  we  withdrew  ;  and  we  had  no  sooner  got 
fairly  out  of  the  house,  than  Umphraviile  began  to 
interrogate  me  with  regard  to  the  gentlemen  who  had 
dined  with  us.  u  They  are  men  of  fashion,"  said  I — 
44  But  who  are  they  ?  of  what  families  are  they  de- 
"  scended  ?" — "  As  to  that,"  replied  I,  "  you  know 
44  I  am  not  skilled  in  the  science  of  genealogy  ;  but, 
44  though  I  were,  it  would  not  enable  me  to  answer 
44  your  present  enquiries  ;  for  I  believe,  were  you  to 
41  put  the  question  to  the  gentlemen  themselves,  it 
11  would  puzzle   either  of  them  to  tell  you  who  his 


THE   MIRROR.  227 

"  grandfather  was." — What  then,"  said  he,  in  an  de- 
rated tone  of  voice,  "  entitles  them  to  be  received 
"  into  company  as  men  of  fashion  ?  Is  it  extent  of 
"  ability,  superiority  of  genius,  refinement  of  taste, 
"  elegant  accomplishments  or  polite  conversation  ?  I 
"  admit,  that  where  these  are  to  be  found  in  an  emi- 
"  nent  degree,  they  may  make  up  for  the  want  of 
"  birth  ;  but  where  a  person  can  neither  talk  like  a 
"  man  of  sense,  nor  behave  like  a  gentleman,  I  must 
*»  own  I  cannot  easily  pardon  our  men  of  rank  for  al- 
"  lowing  every  barrier  to  be  removed,  and  every  fri- 
"  volous,  insignificant  fellow,  who  can  adopt  the 
u  reigaing  vices  of  the  age,  to  be  received  on  an  equal 
"  footing  with  themselves. — But  after  all"  continued 
he,  in  a  calm  tone,  "  if  such  be  the  manners  of  our 
u  men  of  rank,  it  may  be  doubted  whether  they,  or 
"  their  imitators,  are  the  greatest  objects  of  con- 
tempt." 
R. 


u 


No.  XLVI.     SATURDAY,  JULY  3. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 

I  HAPPENED  lately  to  dine  in  a  large  company, 
where  I  was  in  a  great  measure,  unknowing  and  un- 
known. To  enter  into  farther  particulars,  would  be 
to  tell  you  more  than  is  necessary  to  my  story. 

The  conversation,  after  dinner,  turned  on  that  com- 
mon-place question,  "  Whether  a  parent  ought  to 
"  chuse  a  profession  for  his  child,  or  leave  him  to 
"  chuse  for  himself?" 

Many  remarks  and  examples  were  produced  on 
both  sides  of  the  question  ;  and  the  argument  hung 


22S  THE     MIRltOR. 

in  equilibrio,  as  is  often  the  case,  when  al!  the  spea- 
kers are  moderately  well-informed,  and  none  of  them 
are  very  eager  to  convince,  or  unwilling  To  be  con- 
vinced. 

At  length  an  elderly  gentleman  began  to  give  his 
opinion.  He  was  a  stranger  to  most  of  the  company  ; 
had  been  silent,  but  not  sullen  ;  of  a  steady  but  not 
voracious  appetite  ;  and  one  rather  civil  than  polite. 

"  In  my  younger  days,"  said  he,  "  nothing  would 
"  serve  but  I  must  needs  make  a  campaign  against 

"  the  Turks   in  Hungary." At   mention   of  the 

Turks  in  Hungary,  I  perceived  a  general  impatience 
to  seize  the  company. 

"  I  rejoice  exceedingly,  Sir,"  said  a  young  physi- 
cian, "  that  fortune  has  placed  me  near  one  of  your 
"  character,  Sir,  from  whom  I  may  be  informed  with 
"  precision,  whether  lavement  of  ol.  amygd.  did  in- 
"  deed  prove  a  specific  in  the  Hungarian  Dysenteria, 
"  which  desolated  the  German  army  V* 

"  Ipecacuanha  in  small  doses,"  added  another  gen- 
tleman of  the  faculty,  "  is  an  excellent  recipe,  and 
"  was  generally  prescribed  at  our  hospitals  in  West- 
**  phalia,  with  great,  although  not  infallible  success  : 
"  but  that  method  was  not  known  in  the  last  wars 
"  between  the  Ottomans,  vulgarly  termed  Turks, 
"  and  the  Imperialists,  whom,  through  an  error  ex- 
M  ceedingly  common,  my  good  friend  has  clcnomina- 
"  ted  GermaHS." 

"  You  must  pardon  me,Doctor,"  said  a  third>  "  ipe- 
"  cacuanha,  in  small  doses,  was  administered  at  the 
u  siege  of  Limerick,  soon  after  the  Revolution  ;  and 
"  if  you  will  be  pleased  to  add  seventy-nine,  the 
"  years  of  this  century,  to  ten  or  eleven,  which  car- 
"  ries  us  back  to  the  siege  of  Limerick  in  the  last,  you 
"  will  find,  if  I  mistake  not,  that  this  recipe  has  been 
"  used  for  fourscore  and  nine,  or  for  ninety  years." 

"  Twice  the  years  of  the  longest  prescription, 
"  Doctor,"  cried  a  pert  barrister  from  the  other  end 


THE    MIRROR.  229 

of  the  table,  "  even  after  making  a  reasonable  allow- 
44  ance  for  minorities." 

"  You  mean  if  that  were  necessary,"  said  a  thought- 
ful aged  person  who  sat  next  him. 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  continued  the  third  physician, 
"  ipecacuanha  was  administered  in  small  doses  at  the 
,k  siege  of  Limerick  :  for  it  is  a  certain  fact,  that  a 
"  surgeon  in  King  William's  army  communicated 
"  the  receipt  of  that  preparation  to  a  friend  of  his, 
"  and  that  friend  communicated  it  to  the  father,  or 
"  rather,  as  I  incline  to  believe,  to  the  grandfather,  of 
"  a  friend  of  mine.  I  am  peculiarly  attentive  to  the 
•'  exactitude  of  my  facts ;  for  iadeed,  it  is  by  facts  alone 
"  that  we  can  proceed  to  reason  with  assurance.  It 
u  was  the  great  Bacon's  method." 

A  grave  personage  in  black  then  spoke  : — "  There 
"  is  another  circumstance  respecting  the  last  wars  in 
"  Hungary,  which,  I  must  confess,  does  exceedingly 
44  interest  my  curiosity  ;  and  that  is,  whether  General 
"  Doxat  was  justly  condemned  for  yielding  up  a  for- 
"  tified  city  to  the  Infidels  :  or  whether,  being  an  in- 
u  nocent  man,  and  a  Protestant,  he  was  persecuted 
"  unto  death  by  the  intrigues  of  the  Jesuits  at  the 
u  court  ©f  Vienna  ? 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  General  Doxy,"  said  the 
stranger,  who  had  hitherto  listened  attentively  ;  "  but, 
"  if  he  was  persecuted  by  the  Jesuits,  I  should  sup- 
"  pose  him  to  have  been  a  very  honest  gentleman  ; 
"  for  I  never  heard  any  thing  but  ill  of  the  people  of 
"  that  religion." 

"  You  forget,"  said  the  first  physician,  "  the  Quin- 
«  quina,  that  celebrated  febrifuge,  which  was  brought 
"  into  Europe  by  a  father  of  that  order,  or,  as  you 
"  are  pleased  to  express  it  in  a  French  idiom,  of  that 
"  religion." 

u  That  of  the  introduction  of  the  Quinquina  into 
"  Europe  by  the  Jesuits  is  a  vulgar  error,"  said  the 
second  physician  :  "  the  truth  is,  that  the  secret  was 
"  communicated  by  the  natives  of  South-America  to 


230  THE   MIRROR. 

"  a  humane  Spanish  governor  whom  they  loved.  He 
44  lold  his  chaplain  of  it ;  the  chaplain,  a  German 
K  Jesuit,  gave  some  of  the  bark  to  Dr.  Helvetius,  of 
44  Amsterdam,  father  of  that  Helvetius,  who,  having 
"  composed  a  book  concerning  matter,  gave  it  the 
"  title  of  spirit." 

44  What !"  cried  the  third  physician,  "  was  that 
"  Dr.  Helvetius  who  cured  the  Queen  of  France  of 
44  an  intermittent,  the  father  of  Helvetius  the  re- 
44  nowned  philosopher  ?  The  fact  is  exceedingly  cu- 
44  rious  ;  and  I  wonder  whether  it  has  come  to  the 
44  knowledge  of  my  correspondent  Dr.  B ." 

44  As  the  gentleman  speaks  of  his  campaigns," 
said  an  officer  of  the  army,  44  he  will  probably  be  in 
44  a  condition  to  inform  us,  whether  Marshal  Saxe  is 
44  to  be  credited  when  he  tells  us  in  his  Reveries, 
44  that  the  Turkish  horse,  after  having  drawn  out 
44  their  fire,  mowed  down  the  Imperial  infantry  I" 

44  Perhaps  we  shall  have  some  account  of  Petro- 
44  nius  found  at  Belgrade,"  said  another  of  the  com- 
pany ;  44  but  I  suspend  my  enquiries  until  the  gentle- 
44  man  has  finished  his  story." 

r44  I  bare  listened  with  great  pleasure,"  said  the 
stranger,  44  and,  though  I  cannot  say  that  I  under- 
44  stand  all  the  ingenious  things  spoken,  I  can  see 
u  the  truth  of  what  I  have  often  been  told,  that  the 
44  Scots,  with  all  their  faults,  are  a  learned  nation. 

44  In  my  younger  days,  it  is  true,  that  nothing 
44  would  serve  me  but  I  must  needs  make  a  campaign 
44  against  the  Turks,  or  the  Hotmen  in  Hungary  ; 
44  but  my  father  could  not  afford  to  breed  me  like  a 
44  gentleman,  which  was  my  own  wish,  and  so  he 
44  bound  me  for  seven  years  to  a  ship-chandler  in 
44  WappiRg.  Just  as  my  time  was  out,  my  master 
44  died,  and  I  married  the  widow.  What  by  marri- 
<4  ages,  and  what  by  purchasing  damaged  stores, 
44  got  together  a  pretty  capital.  I  then  dealt  in  sai- 
44  lors'  tickets,  and  I  peculated,  as  they  call  it,  in 
44  divers  things.  lam  now  well  known  about 'Change ;. 


THK    MIRROR.  2  3"1 

"  aye,  and,  somewhere  else  too,"  said  he,  with  a  sig- 
nificant nod. 

"  Now,  Gentlemen,  you  will  judge  whether  my 
"  father  did  not  chuse  better  for  me  than  I  should 
"  have  done  for  myself.  Had  I  gone  to  the  wars,  I 
"  might  have  lost  some  of  my  precious  limbs,  or 
u  have  had  my  tongue  cut  out  by  the  Turks.  But 
*'  suppose  that  I  had  returned  safe  to  Old  England,  I 
44  might  indeed  have  been  able  to  brag,  that  I  was 
44  acquainted  with  the  laughing  man  of  Hungary,  and 
"  with  Peter,  o — I  can't  hit  on  his  name;  and  I  might 
44  have  learnt  the  way  of  curing  Great  Bacon,  and 
4'  known  whether  a  l^urkish  horse  mowed  down  Im- 
<4  perial  Infants  ;  but  my  pockets  would  have  been 
44  empty  all  the  while,  and  I  should  have  been  put  to 
44  hard  shifts  for  a  dinner.  And  so  you  will  see  that 
44  my  father  did  well  in  binding  me  apprentice  to  a 
4<  ship-chandler  — Here  is  to  his  memory  in  a  bumper 
"  of  port ;  and  success  to  omnium,  and  the  Irish  Tong- 
"   tcing  I" 

I  am,  Sir,  Sec 

EuTRAPELUS. 

Though  I  early  signified  my  resolution  of  declining 
to  take  any  public  notice  of  communications  or  let- 
ters sent  me  ;  yet  there  is  a  set  of  correspondents 
whose  favours,  lately  received,  I  think  myself  bound 
to  acknowledge  ;  and  this  I  do  the  more  willingly,  as 
it  shows  the  fame  of  my  predecessors  to  have  ex- 
tended farther  than  even  I  had  been  apt  to  imagine. 

The  Spectator's  Club  is  well  known  to  the  literary 
and  the  fashionable  of  both  sexes  ;  but  I  confess  I 
was  not  less  surprised  than  pleased  to  find  it  familiar 
(much  to  the  credit  of  the  gentlemen  who  frequent 
such  places)  to  the  very  tavern  keepers  of  this  city  ; 
the  greatest  part  of  whom,  not  doubting  that  I  was  to 
follow  so  illustrious  an  example,  in  the  institution  of 
a  convivial  society,    have   severally   applied  to  me, 

vol.  i.  x 


332  THE    MIRROR. 

through  the  channel  of  my  Editor,  to  beg  that  they 
may  be  honoured  with  the  reception  of  the  Mirror 
Club. 

Like  all  other  candidates  for  employment,  none  of 
them  has  been  at  a  loss,  for  reasons  why  his  proposal 
should  have  the  preference.  One  describes  his  house 
as  in  the  most  public,  another  recommends  his  as  in 
the  most  private  part  of  the  town.  One  says,  his 
tavern  is  resorted  to  by  the  politest  company  ;  ano- 
ther, that  he  only  receives  gentlemen  of  the  most  re- 
gular and  respectable  characters.  One  offers  me 
the  largest  room  of  its  kind  ;  another  the  most  quiet 
and  commodious.  I  am  particularly  pleased  with 
the  attention  of  one  of  these  gentlemen,  who  tells 
me  he  has  provided  an  excellent  elbow-chair  for  Mr. 
Umphraville  ;  and  that  he  shall  take  care  to  have  no 
children  in  his  house  to  disturb  Mr.  Fleetwood. 

I  am  sorry  to  keep  these  good  people  in  suspence  ; 
but  I  must  inform  them,  for  many  obvious  reasons, 
that  though  my  friends  and  I  visit  them  oftener  per- 
haps than  they  are  aware  cf,  it  may  be  a  considerable 
time  before  we  find  it  convenient  to  constitute  a  regu- 
lar club,  or  to  make  known,  even  to  the  master  of 
the  house  which  has  the  honour  of  receiving  us, 
where  we  have  fixed  the  place  of  our  convention. 

Mean  time,  as  all  of  them  rest  their  chief  preten- 
sions on  the  character  of  the  clubs  who  already  favour 
them  with  their  countenance,  and  as  the  names  of 
most  of  these  clubs  excite  my  curiosity  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  their  history  and  constitution,  I  must 
hereby  request  the  landlords  who  entertain  the  re- 
spective societies  of  the  Capillaire,  the  Whin-bush, 
the  Knights  of  the  Cap  and  Feather,  the  Tabernacle, 
the  Stoic,  the  Poker,  the  Hum-drum,  and  the  Ante- 
manum,  to  transmit  me  a  short  account  of  the  origin 
and  nature  of  these  societies  ; — I  say  the  landlords, 
because  I  do  not  think  myself  entitled  to  desire  such 
an  account  from  the   clubs  themselves  ;  and  because 


THE    MIRROR. 


it  is  probable  that  the  most  material  transactions  car- 
ried on   at  their  meetings  are  perfectly  well  known, 
and.  indeed,  may  be  said  to  come  through  the  hands 
of  the  hosts  and  their  deputies. 
L 


Quid  minuat  curas,  quid  te  tibi  reddat  amicum.  Hon. 

THAT  falsi  refinement  and  mistaken  delicacy  I 
have  formerly  described  in  my  friend  Mr.  Fleetwood, 
a  constant  indulgence  in  which  has  rendered  all  his 
feelings  so  acute,  as  to  make  him  be  disgusted  with 
the  ordinary  societies  of  men,  not  only  attends  him 
when  in  company,  or  engaged  in  conversation,  but 
sometimes  disturbs  those  pleasures,  from  which  a  mind 
like  his  ought  to  receive  the  highest  enjoyment. 
Though  endowed  with  the  most  excellent  taste,  and 
though  his  mind  be  fitted  for  relishing  ail  the  beau- 
ties of  good  composition  ;  yet.  such  is  the  effect  of 
that-  excess  of  sensibility  he  has  indulged,  that  he 
hardly  ever  receives  pleasure  from  any  of  these, 
which  is  not  mixed  with  some  degree  of  pain.  In 
reading,  though  he  can  feel  ail  the  excellencies  of 
the  author,  and  enter  into  his  sentiments  with  warmth, 
yet  he  generally  meets  with  something  to  offend 
him.  If  a  poem,  he  complains  that,  with  all  its  me- 
rit, it  is,  in  some  places,  turgid,  in  others  languid  ; 
if  a  prose  composition,  that  the  style  is  laboured  or 
careless,  stiff  or  familiar,  and  that  the  matter  is  either 
trite  or  obscure.  In  his  remarks,  there  is  always 
some  foundation  of  truth  ;  but  that  exquisite  sensi- 
bility which  leads   to  the  too  nice   perception  of  b'e- 


23*  THE    MIRROR. 

mishes,  is  apt  to  carry  him  away  from  the  contem- 
plation of  the  beauties  of  the  author,  and  gives  him 
a  degree  of  uneasiness  which  is  not  always  compen- 
sated by  the  pleasure  he  receives. 

Very  different  from  this  turn  of  mind  is  that  of 
Robert  Moiley,  Esq.  He  is  a  man  of  very  consi- 
derable abilities.  His  father,  (possessed  of  a  consi- 
derable fortune)  sent  him,  when  a  boy,  to  an  English 
academy.  He  contracted,  from  the  example  of  hia 
teachers,  an  attachment  to  ancient  learning  ;  and  he 
was  led  to  think  that  he  felt  and  relished  the  classic*, 
and  understood  the  merits  of  their  composition.  From 
these  circumstances,  he  began  to  fancy  himself  a  man 
of  fine  taste,  qualified  to  decide  with  authority  upon 
every  subject  of  polite  literature.  But,  in  reality, 
Mr.  Morlcy  possesses  as  little  taste  as  any  one  I 
ever  knew  of  his  talents  and  learning.  Endowed,  by 
Nature,  with  great  strength  of  mind,  and  ignorant  of 
the  feeeleness  and  weakness  of  human  character,  he 
is  a  stranger  to  all  those  finer  delicacies  of  feeling 
and  perception  which  constitute  the  man  of  genuine 
taste.  But,  this  notwithstanding,  from  the  persuasion 
that  he  is  a  person  of  fine  taste,  he  reads  and  talks 
with  fancied  rapture,  of  a  poem,  or  a  poetical  de- 
scription. All  his  remarks,  however,  discover  that 
he  knows  nothing  of  what  he  talks  about  ;  and  almost 
every  opinion  which  he  gives  differs  from  the  most 
approved  upon  the  subject.  Catched  by  that  spirit 
which  Homer's  heroes  are  possessed  of,  he  agrees 
with  the  greatest  part  of  the  world  in  thinking  that 
author  the  first  of  all  poets  ;  but  Virgil  he  considers 
as  a  poet  of  very  little  merit.  To  him  he  prefers 
Lucan  ;  but  thinks  there  are  some  passages  in  Sta- 
tius  superior  to  either.  He  says  Ovid  gives  a  better 
picture  of  love  than  Tibullus  ;  and  he  prefers  Quintus 
Curtius,  as  an  historian,  to  Livy.  The  modern  writers, 
particularly  the  French,  he  generally  speahs  of  with 
contempt.     Amongst  the  Erglish,  he  likes  the  style 


THE   MIRROR.  235 

of  the  Rambler  better  than  that  of  Mr.  Addison's 
Spectator  ;  and  he  prefers  Gordon  and  Macpherson 
to  Hume  and  Robertson.  I  have  sometimes  heard 
him  repeat  an  hundred  lines  at  a  stretch,  from  one 
of  the  most  bombast  of  our  English  poets,  and  have 
seen  him  in  apparent  rapture  at  the  high-sounding 
words,  and  swell  of  the  lines,  though  I  am  pretty 
certain  that  he  could  not  have  a  distinct  picture  or 
idea  of  any  one  thing  the  poet  meant.  Though  he 
has  no  ear,  I  have  heard  him  talk  with  enthusiasm 
in  praise  of  music,  and  lecture,  with  an  air  of  supe-" 
riority,  upon  the  different  qualities  of  the  greatest 
masters  in  the  art. 

Thus,  while  Mr.* Fleetwood  is  often  a  prey  to  dis- 
appointment, and  rendered  uneasy  by  excessive  re- 
finement and  sensibility,  Mr.  Morley,  without  any 
taste  at  all,  receives  gratification  unmixed  and  un- 
alloyed. 

The  character  of  Morley  is  not  more  different  from 
Fleetwood's,  than  that  of  Tom  Dacres  is  from  both. 
Tom  is  a  young  man  of  six-and-twenty,  and  being 
owner  of  an  estate  of  about  five  hundred  pounds  a- 
year,  he  resides  constantly  in  the  country.  He  is  not 
a  man  of  parts  ;  nor  is  he  possessed  of  the  least  de- 
gree of  taste  ;  but  Tom  lives  easy,  contented,  and 
happy.  He  is  one  of  the  greatest  talkers  I  ever  knew  ; 
he  rambles,  with  great  volubility,  from  subject  to  sub- 
ject ;  but  he  never  says  any  thing  that  is  worth  being 
heard.  He  is  every  where  the  same  ;  and  he  runs 
on  with  the  like  undistinguishing  ease,  whether  in 
company  with  men  in  high  or  in  low  rank,  with  the 
knowing  or  the  ignorant.  The  morning,  if  the  wea- 
ther be  good,  he  employs  in  traversing  the  fields, 
dressed  in  a  short  coat,  and  an  old  slouched  hat  with 
tarnished  gold  binding.  He  is  expert  at  all  exercises ; 
and  he  passes  much  of  his  time  in  shooting,  playing 
at  cricket,  or  at  nine-pins.  If  the  weather  be  rainy, 
he  moves  from  the  farm-yard  to  the  stable,  or  from 
x  2 


236  THE    MIRROR. 

the  stable  to  the  farm-yard.  He  walks  from  one  end 
of  the  parlour  to  the  other,  humming  a  tune,  Gr  whist- 
ling to  himself;  sometimes  he  plays  on  the  fiddle, 
or  takes  a  hit  at  back-gammon.  Tom's  sisters,  who 
are  very  accomplished  girls,  now  and  then  put  into 
his  hands  any  new  book  with  which  they  are  pleased  ; 
but  he  always  returns  it,  says  he  does  not  see  the  use 
of  reading,  that  the  book  may  be  good,  is  well  pleased 
that  they  like  it,  but  that  it  is  not  a  thing  of  his  suit. 
Even  in  the  presence  cf  ladies,  he  often  indulges  in 
jokes  coarse  and  indecent,  which  could  not  be  heard 
without  a  blush  from  any  other  person  ;  but  from 
Tom,  for  his  way  is  known,  they  are  heard  without 
offence.  Tom  is  pleased  with  «himself,  and  with 
every  thing  around  him,  and  wishes  for  nothing  that 
he  is  not  possessed  of.  He  says  he  is  much  happier 
than  your  wiser  and  graver  gentlemen.  Tom  will 
never  be  respected  or  admired  ;  but  he  is  di-liked  by 
none,  and  made  welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

In  reflecting  upon  these  characters,  I  have  some- 
times been  almost  tempted  to  think,  that  taste  is  an 
acquisition  to  be  avoided.  I  have  been  apt  to  make 
this  conclusion,  when  I  considered  the  many  unde- 
scribable  uneasinesses  which  Mr.  Fleetwood  is  ex- 
posed to,  and  the  many  unalloyed  enjoyments  of 
Morley  and  Dacres  ;  the  one  without  taste,  but  be- 
lieving himself  possessed  of  it ;  the  other  without 
taste,  and  without  thinking  that  he  has  any.  But  I 
have  always  been  withdrawn  from  every  such  reflec- 
tion, by  the  contemplation  of  the  character  of  my 
much-valued  friend  Mr.  Sidney. 

Mr.  Sidney  is  a  man  of  the  best  understanding,  and 
of  the  most  correct  and  elegant  taste  ;  but  he  is  not 
more  remarkable  for  those  qualities,  than  for  that  un- 
common goodness  and  benevolence  which  presides 
in  all  he  says  and  does.  To  this  it  is  owing  that  his 
refined  taste  has  never  been  attended  with  any  other 
consequence  than  to  add  to  his  own  happiness,  and  to 


THE    MIRROR.  237 

that  of  every  person  with  whom  he  has  any  connec- 
tion. Mr.  Sidney  never  unbosoms  the  secrets  of  his 
heart,  except  to  a  very  few  particular  friends  ;  but 
he  is  polite  and  complaisant  to  all.  It  is  not,  howe- 
ever,  that  politeness  which  arises  from  a  desire  to 
comply  with  the  rules  of  the  world  ;  it  is  polite- 
ness dictated  by  the  heart,  and  which,  therefore,  sits 
always  easy  upon  him.  At  peace  with  his  own  mind, 
he  is  pleased  with  every  one  about  him  ;  and  he  re- 
ceive the  most  sensible  gratification  from  the  thought, 
that  the  little  attentions  which  he  bestows  upon  others, 
contribute  to  their  happiness.  No  person  ever  knew 
better  how  to  estimate  the  different  pleasures  of  life  ; 
but  none  ever  entered  with  more  ease  into  the  en- 
joyments of  others,  though  not  suited  to  his  own 
taste.  This  flows  from  the  natural  benevolence  of 
his  heart ;  and  I  know  he  has  received  more  delight 
from  taking  ?/  -hare  in  the  pleasures  of  others,  than 
in  cultivating  his  own.  In  reading,  no  man  has  a 
nicer  discernment  of  the  faults  of  an  author  ;  but 
he  always  contrives  to  overlook  them  ;  and  says,  that 
he  hardly  ever  read  any  book  from  which  he  did  not 
receive  some  pleasure  or  instruction. 

Mr.  Sidney  has,  in  the  course  of  his  life,  met  with 
disappointments  and  misfortunes,  though  few  of  them 
are  known,  except  to  his  most  particular  friends. 
While  the  impression  of  those  misfortunes  was 
strongest  on  his  mind,  his  outward  conduct  in  the 
world  remained  invariably  the  same  ;  and  those  few 
friends  whom  he  honoured  by  making  partners  of  his 
sorrows,  know  that  one  great  source  of  his  consola- 
tion was  the  consciousness  that,  under  the  pressure 
of  calamity,  his  behaviour  remained  unaltered,  and 
that  he  was  able  to  go  through  the  duties  of  life  with 
becoming  dignity  and  ease.  Instead  of  being  peevish 
and  discontented  with  the  world,  the  disappointments 
he  has  met  with  have  only  taught  him  to  become 
more  detached  from  those  enjoyments  of  life  which 


238  THE    MIRROR. 

are  beyond  his  power,  and  have  made  him  value  more 
highly  those  which  he  possesses.  Mr.  Sidney  has, 
for  a  long  time  past,  been  engaged  in  business  of  a 
very  difficult  and  laborious  nature  :  but  he  conducts 
it  with  equal  ease  and  spirit.  Far  from  the  elegance 
and  sensibility  of  his  mind  unfitting  him  for  the 
management  of  those  transactions  which  require 
great  firmness  and  perseverance,  I  believe  it  is  his 
good  taste  and  elegant  refinement  of  mind,  which 
enable  him  to  suppert  that  load  cf  business  ;  because 
he  knows  that,  when  it  is  finished,  he  has  pleasure 
in  store.  He  is  married  to  a  very  amiable  and  beau- 
tiful woman,  by  whom  he  has  four  fine  children.  He 
says  that,  when  he  thinks  it  is  for  them,  all  toil  is 
easy,  and  all  labour  light. 

The  intimate  knowledge  I  have  of  Mr.  Sidney  has 
taught  me,  that  refinement  and  delicacy  of  mind, 
when  kept  within  proper  bounds,  contribute  to  hap- 
piness ;  and  that  their  natural  effect,  instead  of  pro- 
ducing uneasiness  and  chagrin,  is  to  add  to  the  en- 
joyments of  life.  In  comparing  the  two  characters 
of  Fleetwood  and  Sidney,  which  nature  seems  to  have 
cast  in  the  same  mould,  I  have  been  struck  with  the 
fatal  consequences  to  Fleetwood,  of  indulging  his 
spleen  at  those  little  rubs  in  life,  which  a  juster  sense 
of  human  imperfection  would  make  him  consider 
equally  unavoidable,  and  to  be  regarded  with  the  same 
indifference,  as  a  rainy  day,  a  dusty  road,  or  any  the 
like  trifling  inconvenience.  There  is  nothing  so  in- 
considerable which  may  not  become  of  importance, 
when  made  an  object  of  serious  attention.  Sidney 
never  repines  like  Fleetwood  ;  and,  as  he  is  much 
more  respected,  so  he  has  much  more  real  happi- 
ness than  either  Morley  or  Dacres.  Fleetwood's 
weaknesses  are  amiable  ;  and,  though  we  pity,  we 
must  love  him  ;  but  there  is  a  complacent  dignity  in 
the  character  of  Sindey,  which  excites  at  once  our 
love,  respect,  and  admiration. 

A 


THE    MIRROR.  239 


No.  XLVIII.     SATURDAY,  JULY  10. 

THE  following  paper  was  lately  received  from  a 
correspondent,  who  accompanied  it  with  a  promise 
of  carrying  his  idea  through  some  of  the  other  tine 
arts.  I  have  since  been  endeavouring  to  make  it  a 
little  less  technical,  in  order  to  fit  it  more  for  general 
perusal  ;  but,  finding  I  could  not  accomplish  this, 
without  hurting  the  illustrations  of  the  writer,  I  have 
given  it  to  my  readers  in  the  terms  in  which  I  re- 
ceived it. 

THE  perceptions  of  different  men,  arising  from 
the  impressions  of  the  same  object,  are  very  often 
different.  Of  these  we  always  suppose  one  to  be  just 
and  true  ;  all  the  others  to  be  false.  But  which  is 
the  true,  and  which  the  false,  we  are  often  at  a  loss 
to  determine  ;  as  the  poet  has  said, 

'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 

Go  just  alike,  vet  each  believes  his  own.  Pope. 

With  regard  to  our  external  senses,  this  diversity 
of  feeling,  as  far  as  it  occurs,  is  of  little  consequence  ; 
but  the  truth  of  perception,  in  our  internal  senses, 
employed  in  morals  and  criticism,  is  more  interest- 
ing and  important. 

In  the  judgments  we  form  concerning  the  beauty 
and  excellency  of  the  several  imitative  arts,  this  dif- 
ference of  feeling  is  very  conspicuous  ;  and  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  say  why  each  man  may  not  believe  his  own, 
or  how  a  standard  may  be  established,  by  which  the 
truth  of  different  judgments  may  be  compared  and 
tried.  Whether  there  is,  or  is  not,  a  standard  of 
t  .ote,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  determine  ;  but  there  is 
a  question  connected  with  that,  which,  properly  an- 
swered, may  have  some  effect  in  the  decision  :  whe- 


240  THE    MIRROR. 

therm  the  imitative  arts,  a  person  exercised  in  the 
practice  of  the  art,  or  in  the  frequent  contemplation 
of  its  productions,  be  better  qualified  to  judge  of  these, 
than  a  person  who  only  feels  the  direct  and  immedi- 
ate effects  of  it  ?  In  the  words  of  an  ancient  critic, 
"  An  docti,  qui  rationem  operis  intelligunt,  an  qui 
"  voluptatem  tantum  percipiunt,  optime  dijudicant  ?" 
or,  as  I  may  express  it  in  English,  Whether  the  artist 
or  connoisseur  have  any  advantage  over  other  persons 
of  common  sense  or  common  feeling  ? 

This  question  shall  be  considered  at  present  with 
regard  to  one  art  only,  to  wit,  that  of  painting  ;  but 
some  of  the  principal  which  I  shall  endeavour  to  il- 
lustrate, will  have  a  general  tendency  to  establish  a 
decision  in  all.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  proper  to 
mention  the  chief  sources  of  the  pleasure  we  receive 
in  viewing  pictures.  One  arises  from  the  perception 
of  imitation,  however  produced  ;  a  second  from  the 
art  displayed  in  producing  such  imitation  ;  and  a 
third,  from  the  beauty,  grace,  agreeableness,  and  pro- 
priety of  the  object  imitated.  These  may  all  occur 
in  the  imitation  of  one  single  object  ;  but  a  much 
higher  pleasure  arises  from  several  objects  combined 
together  in  such  a  manner,  that,  while  each  of  them 
singly  affords  the  several  sources  of  pleasure  already 
mentioned,  they  all  unite  in  producing  one  effect, 
one  particular  emotion  in  the  spectator,  and  an  im- 
pression much  stronger  than  could  have  been  raised 
by  one  object  alone. 

These  seem  to  be  the  chief  sources  of  the  pleasure 
we  receive  from  pictures  ;  and,  with  regard  to  the 
true  and  accurate  perceptions  of  each,  let  us  consider 
who  is  most  likely  to  form  them,  the  painter  and  con- 
noisseur, or  the  unexperienced  spectator. 

In  viewing  imitation,  we  are  more  or  less  pleased 
according  to  the  degree  of  exactness  with  which  the 
object  is  expressed  ;  and,  supposing  the  object  to  be 
a  common  one,  it  might  be  imagined,  that  every  per- 


THE    MIRROR.  241 

son  would  be  equally  a  judge  of  the  exactness  of  the 
imitation;  but,  in  truth,  it  is  otherwise.  Our  recol- 
lection of  an  object  does  not  depend  upon  any  secret 
remembrance  of  the  several  parts  of  which  it  con- 
sists, of  the  exact  position  of  these,  or  of  the  dimen- 
sions of  the  whole.  A  very  inaccurate  resemblance 
serves  the  purpose  of  memory,  and  will  often  pass 
with  us  for  a  true  representation,  even  of  the  sub- 
jects that  we  fancy  ourselves  very  well  acquainted 
with. 

The  self-applause  of  Zeuxis  was  not  well  founded, 
when  he  valued  himself  on  having  painted  grapes, 
that  so  far  deceived  the  birds,  as  to  bring  them  to 
peck  at  his  picture.  Birds  are  no  judges  of  an  accu- 
rate resemblance,  when  they  often  mistake  a  scare- 
crow for  a  man.  Nor  had  Parrhasius  much  reason  to 
boast  of  his  deceiving  even  Zeuxis,  who,  viewing  it 
hastily,  and  from  a  distance,  mistook  the  picture  of 
a  linen  cloth  for  a  real  one.  It  always  requires  study 
to  perceive  the  exactness  of  imitation  ;  and  most 
persons  may  find,  by  daily  experience,  that,  when 
they  would  examine  the  accuracy  of  any  representa- 
tion, they  can  hardly  do  it  properly,  but  by  bringing 
together  the  picture  and  its  archetype,  so  that  they 
may  quickly  pass  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and 
thereby  compare  the  foim,  size,  and  p.oportions  of 
all  the  different  parts.  Without  such  study  of  ob- 
jects as  the  painter  employs  to  imitate  them,  or  the 
connoisseur  employs  in  comparing  them  with  their 
imitations,  there  is  no  person  can  be  a  judge  of  the 
exactness  of  the  representation.  The  painters,  there- 
fore, or  the  connoisseurs,  are  the  persons  who  will 
best  perceive  the  truth  of  imitation,  and  best  judge 
of  its  merit.  It  is  true,  some  persons  may  be  ac- 
quainted with  certain  objects,  even  better  than  the 
painters  themselves,  as  the  shoemaker  was  with  the 
shoe  in  the  picture  of  Apelles  :  but  most  persons, 
like  the  same  shoemaker,  are  unfit  to   extend  their 


242  THE    MIRROR. 

judgment  beyond  their  last ;  and  must  in  other 
parts,  yield  to  the  more  general  knowledge  of  the 
painter. 

As  we  are,  in  the  first  place,  pleased  with  viewing 
imitation  ;  so  we  are,  in  the  second  pUce,  with  con- 
sidering the  art  by  which  the  imitation  is  performed. 
The  pleasure  we  derive  from  this,  is  in  proportion 
to  the  difficulty  we  apprehend  in  the  execution,  and 
the  degree  of  genius  necessary  to  the  performance  of 
it.  But  this  difficulty,  and  the  degree  of  genius  ex- 
erted in  surmounting  it,  can  only  be  well  known  to 
the  persons  exercised  in  the  practice  of  the  art. 

When  a  person  has  acquired  an  exact  idea  of  an 
object,  there    is    still  a  great  difficulty  in  expressing 
that  corrc  ctedly   upon  his  canvas.       With  regard  to 
objects  of  a  steady  figure,  they  may  perhaps  be  imi- 
tated by  an  ordinary  artist  ;  but  transient  objects,  of 
a  momentary  appearance,  require  still  a  nicer  hand. 
To  catch  the  more  delicate  expressions  of  the  human 
soul,  requires  an  art  of  which  few  are  possessed,  and 
none   can  sufficiently  admire,   but  those  who   have 
themselves  attempted  it.     These  are  the  difficulties 
of  painting,  in  forming  even  a  correct  outline  ;  and 
the   painter  has  yet  more  to  struggle  with.     To  re- 
present a  solid  upon  a  plain  surface,  by  the  position 
and  size  of  the  several  parts  ;  to  be  exact  in  the  per- 
spective ;  by  these,   and  by  the   distribution  of  light 
and  shade,  to  make   every  figure  stand  out  from  the 
canvass  ;  and,  lastly,  by  natural  and  glowing  colours, 
to  animate  and  give  life  to  the  whole  :  these  are  parts 
of  the  painter's  art^Trom  which  chiefly  the  pleasure 
of  the  spectator,  arising  from  his  consciousness  of 
the  imitation,  is  derived,  but  at  the  same  lime,  such 
as  the  uninformed  spectator  has  but  an  imperfect  no- 
tion of,  and,  therefore,  must  feel  an  inferior  degree 
of  pleasure  in  contemplating. 

The  next    soiu.ee   of  the  pleasures  derived   from 
painting,  above  taken  notice  of,  is  that  arising  from 


THE    MIRROR.  243 

the  beauty,  the  grace,  the  elegance  of  the  object, 
imitated.  When  a  painter  is  happy  enough  to  make 
such  a  choice,  he  does  it  by  a  constitutional  taste 
that  may  be  common  to  all.  Raphael  could  not  learn 
it  fiom  liis  master  Pietro  Perugino  ;  Rubens,  though 
conversant  with  the  best  models  of  antiquity,  could 
never  acquire  it.  In  judging,  therefore,  of  this  part 
of  painting,  the  artist  has  scarcely  any  advantage 
above  the  common  spectator.  But  it  is  to  be  observ- 
ed, that  a  person  of  the  finest  natural  taste  cannot 
become  suddenly  an  elegam  formarum  spectator,  an 
expression  which  it  is  scarce  possible  to  translate. 
It  is  only  by  comparison  that  we  arrive  at  the  know- 
ledge of  what  is  most  perfect  in  its  kind.  The  Ma- 
donas  of  Carlo  Maratt  appear  exquisitely  beautiful  ; 
and  it  is  only  when  we  see  those  of  Raphael  that  we 
discern  their  imperfections.  A  person  may  even  be 
sensible  of  the  imperfections  of  forms  ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  may  find  it  impossible  to  conceive,  with 
precision,  an  idea  of  the  most  perfect.  Thus  Ra- 
phael could  not  form  an  idea  of  the  Divine  Majesty, 
till  he  saw  it  so  forcibly  expressed  in  the  paintings  of 
Michael  Angelo.  As  our  judgment,  therefore,  of 
beauty,  grace,  and  elegance,  though  founded  in  per- 
ception, becomes  accurate  only  by  comparison  and 
experience^  so  the  painter,  exercised  in  the  contem- 
plation of  forms,  is  likely  to  be  a  better  judge  of 
beauty  than  any  person  less  experienced. 

The  last  and  most  considerable  pleasure  received 
from  painting,  is  that  arising  from  composition.  This 
is  properly  distinguished  into  two  kinds,  the  pictu- 
resque, and  the  poetical.  To  the  first  belongs  the  dis- 
tribution of  the  several  figures,  so  that  they  may  all 
be  united  and  conspire  in  one  single  effect ;  while 
each  is  so  placed,  as  to  present  itself  in  proportion  to 
its  importance  in  the  action  represented.  To  this 
also  belongs  the  diversifying  and  contrasting  the  atti- 
tudes of  different  figures,  as  well  as  the  several  mem- 

vol.  i.  y 


244  THE    MIRROR. 

bers  of  each.  Above  all,  the  picturesque  composi- 
tion has  belonging-  to  it  the  distribution  of  light  and 
shade,  while  every  single  figure  has  its  proper  share 
of  each.  One  mass  of  light,  and  its  proportionable 
shade,  should  unite  the  whole  piece,  and  make  every 
part  of  it  conspire  in  one  single  effect.  To  this  also 
belongs  the  harmony,  as  well  as  the  contrast,  of  co- 
lours. Now,  in  all  this  ordonnance  picturesque  there 
appears  an  exquisite  art  only  to  be  acquired  by  cus- 
tom and  habit ;  and  of  the  merit  of  the  execution, 
no  person  can  be  a  judge  but  one  who  has  been  in 
some  measure  in  the  practice  of  it.  It  is  enough  to 
say,  that  hardly  any  body  will  doubt,  that  Paulo  Ve- 
ronese was  a  better  judge  of  the  disposition  of  figures 
than  Michael  Angelo  ;  and  that  Caravaggio  was  a 
better  judge  of  the  distribution  of  light  and  shade 
than  Raphael  ;  so,  in  some  measure,  every  painter, 
in  proportion  to  his  knowledge,  must  be  a  better 
judge  of  the  merit  of  picturesque  composition,  than 
any  person  who  judges  from  the  effects  only. 

With  regard  to  poetical  composition,  it  compre- 
hends the  choice  of  the  action  to  be  represented,  and 
of  the  point  of  time  at  which  the  persons  are  to  be 
introduced,  the  invention  of  circumstances  to  be  em- 
ployed, the  expression  to  be  given  to  every  actor  ; 
and,  lastly,  the  observance  of  the  costume,  that  is, 
giving  to  each  person  an  air  suitable  to  his  rank,  re- 
presenting the  complexion  and  features  that  express 
his  temperament,  his  age,  and  the  climate  of  his 
country,  and  dressing  him  in  the  habit  of  the  time 
in  which  he  lived,  and  of  the  nation  to  which  he  be- 
longs. 

From  this  enumeration  of  the  several  considerations 
that  employ  the  history -painter,  it  will  immediately 
appear,  why  this  department  of  painting  is  called 
poetical  composition  ;  for  here,  in  truth,  it  is  the 
imagination  of  a  poet  that  employs  the  hand  of  a 
painter.     This  imagination  is  nowise  necessarily  con- 


THE    MIRRCR.  245 

nected  with  the  imitative  hand.  Lucas  of  Ley  den 
painted  more  correctly,  that  is,  imitated  more  exact- 
ly, than  Salvator  Rosa  ;  but  the  former  did  not  chuse 
subjects  of  so  much  grace  and  dignity,  nor  composed 
with  so  much  force  and  spirit,  because  he  was  not  a 
poet  like  the  latter.  Salvator  Rosa  has  given  us  ele- 
gant verses  full  of  picturesque  description  ;  and,  in 
every  one  of  his  pictures,  he  strikes  us  by  those  cir- 
cumstances which  his  poetical  imagination  had  sug- 
gested. Mow  it  is  plain,  that  a  poetical  imagination 
must  be  derived  from  nature,  and  can  arise  neither 
from  the  practice  of  painting,  nor  even  from  the  study 
of  pictures.  The  painter,  therefore,  and  even  the 
connoisseur,  in  judging  of  the  merit  of  poetical  com- 
position, can  have  little  advantage  above  other  spec- 
tators ;  but  even  here  it  must  be  allowed,  that  if  the 
painter  has  an  equal  degree  of  taste,  he  must,  from 
the  more  frequent  exercise  of  it,  have  great  ad- 
vantages in  judging  above  any  other  person  less  ex- 
perienced. 

I  have  thus  endeavoured  to  shew,  that,  in  judging 
of  painting,  the  painter  himself,  and  even  the  con- 
noisseur, much  engaged  and  exercised  in  the  study  of 
pictures,  that  is,  "illi  qui  rationem  operis  intelligunt," 
have  advantages  above  the  common  spectators,  u  qui 
"  voluptatem  tantum  precipiunt."  But,  as  a  cau- 
tion to  the  former,  it  may  not  be  improper  to  con- 
clude with  observing,  that  the  painter  and  connois- 
seur are  often  in  danger  of  having  their  sensibility 
deadened,  or  their  natural  taste  corrupted,  by  a  know- 
ledge of  the  technical  minutiae  of  the  art,  so  far  as 
to  throw  the  balance  towards  the  side  of  the  common 
spectator. 

n 


246  THK   MIRROR 


No.  XLIX.     TUESDAY,  JULY  13. 

AS  I  walked  one  evening,  about  a  fortnight  ago, 
through  St.  Andrew's  Square,  I  observed  a  girl, 
meanly  dressed,  coming  along  the  pavement  at  a 
slow  pace.  When  I  passed  her,  she  turned  a  little 
towards  me,  and  made  a  6ort  of  halt ;  but  said  no- 
thing. T  am  ill  at  looking  any  body  full  in  the  face, 
s6  I  went  on  a  few  steps  before  I  turned  my  eye  to 
observe  her.  She  had,  by  this  time,  resumed  her 
former  pace.  I  remarked  a  certain  elegance  in  her 
form,  which  the  poorness  of  her  garb  could  not  alto- 
gether overcome  ;  her  person  was  thin  and  genteel, 
and  there  was  something  not  ungraceful  in  the  stoop 
of  her  head,  and  the  seeming  feebleness  with  which 
she  walked.  I  could  not  resist  the  desire,  which  her 
appearance  gave  me,  of  knowing  somewhat  of  her  situa- 
tion and  circumstance :  I  therefore  walked  back  and  re- 
passed her  with  such  a  look  (for  I  could  bring  myself  to 
nothing  n  ore)  as  might  induce  her  to  speak  what  she 
seemed  desirous  to  say  at  first.  This  had  the  effect  I 
wished. — «  Pity  a  poor  orphan  !"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  and  weak.  I  stopped,  and  put  my  hand  in 
my  pecket :  I  had  now  a  better  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving her.  Her  face  was  thin  and  pale  ;  part  of  it 
was  shaded  by  her  hair,  of  a  light  brown  colour, 
which  was  parted,  in  a  disordered  manner,  at  her 
forehead,  and  hung  loose  upon  her  shoulders  ;  round 
them  was  cast  a  piece  of  tattered  cloak,  which  with 
one  hand  she  held  across  her  bosom,  while  the  other 
was  half  outstretched  to  receive  the  bounty  I  intended 
for  her.  Her  large  blue  eyes  were  cast  on  the  ground : 
she  was  drawing  back  her  hand  as  I  put  a  trifle  into 
it ;  on  receiving  which  she  turned  them  up  to  me, 
muttered  something  which  I  could  not  hear,  and  then 
letting  go  her  cloak,  and  pressing  her  hands  together, 
burst  into  tears. 


THE   MIRROR.  247 

It  was  not  thj  action  of  an  ordinary  beggar,  and 
my  curiosity  was  strongly  excited  by  it.  I  desired 
her  to  follow  me  to  the  house  of  a  friend  hard  by, 
whose  beneficence  I  have  often  had  occasion  to  know. 
When  she  arrived  there,  she  was  so  fatigued  and 
worn  out,  that  it  was  not  till  after  some  means  used 
to  restore  her,  that  she  was  able  to  give  us  an  ac- 
count of  her  misfortunes. 

Her  name,  she  told  us,  was  Collins  ;  the  place  of 
her  birth  one  of  the  northern  counties  of  England. 
Her  father,  who  had  died  several  years  ago,  left  her 
remaining  parent  with  the  charge  of  her,  then  a  child, 
and  one  brother,  a  lad  of  seventeen.  By  his  indus- 
try, however,  joined  to  that  of  her  mother,  they  were 
tolerably  supported,  their  father  having  died  posses- 
sed of  a  small  farm,  with  the  right  of  pasturage  on 
an  adjoining  common,  from  which  they  obtained  a 
decent  livelihood  :  that,  last  summer,  her  brother 
having  become  acquainted  with  a  recruiting  serjeant, 
who  was  quartered  in  a  neighbouring  village,  was  by 
him  enticed  to  list  as  a  soldier,  and  soon  after  was 
marched  off,  along  with  some  other  recruits,  to  join 
his  regiment :  that  this,  she  believed,  broke  her  mo- 
ther's heart,  for  that  she  had  never  afterwards  had  a 
day's  health,  and,  at  length,  had  died  about  three 
weeks  ago  :  that,  immediately  after  her  death,  the 
steward  employed  by  the  squire  of  whom  their  farm 
was  held,  took  possession  of  every  thing  for  the  ar- 
rears of  their  rent :  that,  as  she  heard  her  brother's 
regiment  was  in  Scotland  when  he  enlisted,  she  had 
wandered  hither  in  quest  of  him,  as  she  had  no  other 
relation  in  the  world  to  own  her  !  But  she  found,  on 
arriving  here,  that  the  regiment  had  been  embarked 
several  months  before,  and  was  gone  a  great  way  off, 
she  could  not  tell  whither. 

"  This  news,"  said  she,  "  laid  hold  of  my  heart ; 
"  and  I  have  had  something  wrong  here,"  putting 
her  hand  to  her  bosom,  "  ever  since.  I  got  a  bed 
y  2 


248  THE    MIRROR. 

"  and  some  victuals  in  the  house  of  a  woman  here 
"  in  town,  to  whom  I  told  my  story,  and  who  seemed 
"  to  pity  me.  1  had  then  a  little  bundle  of  things, 
«  which  I  had  been  allowed  to  take  with  me  after 
u  my  mother's  death  ;  but  the  night  before  last, 
"  somebody  stole  it  from  me  while  X  slept ;  and  so 
"  the  woman  said  she  would  keep  me  no  longer,  and 
"  turned  me  out  into  the  street,  where  I  have  since 
<?  remained,  and  am  almost  famished  for  want." 

She  was  now  in  better  hands  ;  but  our  assistance 
had  come  too  late.  A  frame  naturally  delicate,  had' 
yielded  to  the  fatigues  of  her  journey,  and  the  hard- 
ships of  her  situation.  She  declined  by  slow  but  in- 
terrupted degrees,  and  yesterday  breathed  her  last. 
A  short  while  before  she  expired,  she  asked  to  see 
me  ;  and  taking  from  her  bosom  a  little  silver  locket, 
which  she  told  me  had  been  her  mother's,  and  which 
all  her  distresses  could  not  make  her  part  with,  beg- 
ged I  would  keep  it  for  her  dear  brother,  and  give 
it  him,  if  ever  he  should  return  home,  as  "a  token  of 
her  remembrance. 

I  felt  this  poor  girl's  fate  strongly  ;  but  I  tell  not 
her  story  merely  to  indulge  my  feelings  ;  I  would 
make  the  reflections  it  may  excite  in  my  readers, 
useful  to  others  who  may  suffer  in  similar  causes. 
"There  are  many,  I  fear,  from  whom  their  country 
has  called  brothers,  sons  or  fathers,  to  bleed  in  her 
service,  forlorn,  like  poor  Nancy  Collins,  with  "  no 
«  relation  in  the  world  to  own  them."  Their  suffer* 
ings  are  often  unknown,  when  they  are  such  as  most 
demand  compassion.  The  mind  that  cannot  obtrude 
its  distresses  on  the  ear  of  pity,  is  formed  to  feel  their 
poignancy  the  deepest. 

In  our  idea  of  military  operations,  we  are  too  apt  to 
forget  the  misfortunes  of  the  people.  In  defeat,  we 
think  of  the  fall,  and  in  victory,  of  the  glory  of  com- 
manders ;  we  seldom  allow  ourselves  to  consider,  how 
many,  in  a  lower  rank,  both  events  make  wretched  : 


THE   MIRROR.  249 

how  many,  amidst  the  acclamations  of  national  tri- 
umph, are  left  to  the  helpless  misery  of  the  widowed 
and  the  orphan,  and,  while  Victory  celebrates  her 
festival,  feel,  in  their  distant  hovels,  the  extremities 
of  want  and  wretchedness  \ 

It  was  with  pleasure  I  saw,  among  the  resolutions 
of  a  late  patriotic  assembly  in  this  city,  an  agreement 
to  assist  the  poor  families  of  our  absent  soldiers  and 
seamen.  With  no  less  satisfaction  I  read  in  some 
late  newspapers,  a  benevolent  advertisement  for  a 
meeting  of  gentlemen,  to  consider  of  a  subscription  for 
the  same  purpose.  At  this  season  of  general  and 
laudable  exertion,  I  am  persuaded  such  a  scheme 
cannot  fail  of  patronage  and  success.  The  benevo- 
lence of  this  country  requires  not  argument  to  awaken 
it  ;  yet  the  pleasures  of  its  exertion  must  be  increased 
by  the  thought,  that  pity  to  such  objects  is  patriot- 
ism ;  that,  here,  private  compassion  becomes  public 
virtue.  Bounties  for  the  encouragement  of  recruits 
to  our  fleets  and  armies,  are  highly  meritorious  do- 
nations. These,  however,  may  sometimes  bribe  the 
covetous,  and  allure  the  needy ;  but  that  charity  which 
gives  support  and  protection  to  the  families  they  leave 
behind,  addresses  more  generous  feelings  ;  feelings 
which  have  always  been  held  congenial  to  bravery 
and  to  heroism.  It  endears  to  them  that  home  which 
their  swords  are  to  defend,  and  strengthens  those  ties 
which  should  ever  bind  the  soldier  of  a  free  state  to 
his  country. 

Nor  will  such  a  provision  be  of  less  advantage  to 
posterity  than  to  the  present'  times.  It  will  save  to 
the  state  many  useful  subjects  which  those  families 
thus  supported  may  produce,  wiiose  lives  have  for- 
merly been  often  nurtured  by  penury  to  vice,  and 
rendered  not  only  useless,  but  baneful  to  the  com- 
munity ;  that  community  which,  under  a  more  kindly 
influence,  they  might,  like  their  fathers,  have  en- 
riched by  their  industry,  and  protected  by  their  va-- 
lour. 


850  -wif.  MIRROR, 


No.  L.     SATURDAY,  JULY  17. 

THOUGH  the  following  letter  has  been  pretty 
much  anticipated  by  a  former  paper,  yet  it  possesses 
too  much  merit  to  ba  refused  insertion. 

Tq  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Sir, 
ACTIVITY  is  one  of  those  virtues  indispensably 
requisite  for  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  mankind, 
which  nature  appears  to  have  distributed  to  them  with 
a  parsimonious  hand.  All  men  seem  naturally  averse, 
not  only  to  those  exertions  that  sharpen  and  improve 
the  mental  powers,  but  even  to  such  as  are  necessary 
for  maintaining  the  health,  or  strengthening  the  or- 
gans of  the  body.  Whatever  industry  and  enterprize 
the  species  have  at  any  time  displayed,  originated  in 
the  bosom  of  pain,  of  want,  or  of  necessity  ;  or,  in 
the  absence  of  these  causes,  from  the  experience  of 
that  listlessness  and  langour  which  attend  a  state  of 
total  inaction.  But  with  how  great  a  number  does 
this  experience  lead  to  no  higher  object  than  the  care 
of  external  appearances,  or  to  the  prostitution  of  their 
time  in  trivial  pursuits,  or  in  licentious  pleasures  ? 
The  surest,  the  most  permanent  remedy,  and,  in  the 
end  too,  the  most  delightful,  which  is  to  be  found  in 
unremitted  study,  or  in  the  labours  of  a  profession, 
is,  unhappily,  the  last  we  recur  to.  Of  all  who  have 
risen  to  eminence  in  the  paths  of  literature  or  am- 
bition, how  few  are  there,  who  at  first  enjoyed  the 
means  of  pleasure,  or  the  liberty  of  being  idle  ?  and 
how  many  could  every  one  enumerate,  within  the 
circle  of  his  acquaintance,  possessed  of  excellent  abi- 
lities, and  even  anxious  for  reputation,  whom  the 
fatal  inheritance  of  a  bare  competency  has  doomed 
to  obscurity  through  life,  and  quiet  oblivion  when 
dead? 


THE    MIRROR.  25 1 

Let  no  man  confide  entirely  in  his  resolutions  of 
activity,  in  his  love  of  fame,  or  in  his  taste  for  litera- 
ture. All  these  principles,  even  where,  they  are 
strongest,  unless  supported  by  habits  of  industry,  and 
roused  by  the  immediate  presence  of  some  great  ob- 
ject to  which  their  exertion  leads,  gradually  lose,  and 
at  last  resign  their  influence.  The  smallest  particle 
of  natural  indolence,  like  the  principle  of  gravitation 
in  matter,  unless  counterbalanced  by  continual  im- 
pulse from  some  active  cause,  will  insensibly  lower, 
and  at  last  overcome  the  flight  of  the  sublim- 
est  genius.  In  computing  it,  we  ought  to  recol- 
lect, that  it  is  a  cause  for  ever  present  with  us,  in  all 
moods,  in  every  disposition  ;  and  that,  from  the  weak- 
ness of  our  nature,  we  are  willing,  at  any  rate,  to  re- 
linquish distant  prospects  of  happiness  and  advan- 
tage, for  a  much  smaller  portion  of  present  indul- 
gence. 

I  have  been  led  into  these  reflections  by  a  visit 
which  I  lately  paid  to  my  friend  Mordaunt,  in  whom 
they  are,  unhappily,  too  well  exemplified.  I  have 
known  him  from  his  infancy,  and  always  admired 
the  extent  of  his  genius,  as  much  as  I  respected  the 
integrity  of  his  principles,  or  loved  him  for  the  warmth 
and  benevolence  of  his  heart.  But,  since  the  time 
when  he  began  to  contemplate  his  own  character,  he 
has  often  confessed  to  me,  and  feelingly  complained, 
that  nature  had  infused  into  it  a  large  portion  of  indo- 
lence, an  inclination  to  despondency,  and  a  delicacy 
of  feeling,  which  disqualified  him  for  the  drudgery 
of  business,  or  the  bustle  of  public  life.  Frequently, 
in  those  tedious  hours,  when  his  melancholy  claimed 
the  attendance  and  support  of  a  friend,  have  I  seen 
a  conscious  blush  of  shame  and  self-reproach  mingle 
with  the  secret  sigh,  extorted  from  him  by  the  sense 
of  this  defect.  His  situation,  however,  as  second 
son  of  a  family,  which,  though  old  and  honourable, 
possessed  but  a  small  fortune  and  no  interest,   abso- 


-52  THE   MIRROR, 

lutely  required  that  lie  should  adopt  a  profession. 
The  law  was  his  choice  ;  and,  such  is  the  power  of 
habit  and  necessity,  that,  after  four  years  spent  in  the 
study  of  that  science,  though  at  first  it  had  impaired 
his  health,  and  even  soured  his  temper,  he  was  more 
sanguine  in  his  expectation  of  success,  and  enjoyed  a 
more  constant  flow  of  spirits,  than  I  had  ever  known 
him  to  do  at  any  former  period.  The  law,  unfortu- 
nately, seldom  bestows  its  honours  or  emoluments 
upon  the  young- ;  and  my  friend,  too  reserved,  or  too 
indifferent,  to  court  a  set  of  men,  on  whose  good-will 
the  attainment  of  practice,  in  some  degree,  depends, 
found  himself,  at  the  end  of  two  years  close  attend- 
ance at  the  bar,  though  high  in  the  esteem  of  all 
who  knew  him  well,  as  poor,  and  as  distant  from  pre- 
ferment, as  when  he  first  engaged  in  it.  All  my  as- 
surances, that  better  days  would  soon  shine  upon  him, 
tnd  that  his  present  situation  had,  at  first,  been  the 
lot  of  many  now  raised  to  fame  and  distinction,  were 
insufficient  to  support  him.  A  deep  gloom  settled  on 
his  spirits,  and  he  had  already  resolved  to  relinquish 
this  line  of  life,  though  he  knew  not  what  other  to 
enter  upon,  when  the  death  of  a  distant  relation  un- 
expectedly put  him  in  possession  of  an  estate,  which, 
though  of  small  extent,  was  opulence  to  one  that 
wished  for  nothing  more  than  independence,  and  the 
disposal  of  his  own  time. 

After  many  useless  remonstrances  upon  my  part, 
he  set  out  for  his  mansion  in  the  country,  with  his 
mother,  and  a  nephew  of  eight  years  old,  resolved, 
as  he  said,  to  engage  immediately  hxsome  work  to  be 
laid  before  the  public  ;  and  having,  previously  given 
me  his  word  that  he  would  annually  dedicate  a  por- 
tion of  his  time  to  the  society  of  his  friends  in  town. 
In  the  course  of  eighteen  months,  however,  1  did  not 
see  him  ;  and  finding  that  his  letters,  which  had  at 
first  been  full  of  his  happiness,  his  occupations,  and 
the  progress  of  his.  work,  were  daily  becoming  shorter, 


THE    MIRROR.  253 

and  somewhat  mysterious  on  the  two  last  of  these 
pointsj  resolved  to  satisfy  myself  by  my  own  remarks 
with  regard  to  his  situation. 

1  arrived  in  the  evening,  and  was  shewn  into  the 
parlour  :  where  the  first  objects  that  caught  my  at- 
tention were  a  fishing-rod,  and  two  fowling-pieces,  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  and  a  brace  of  pointers  stretch- 
ed upon  the  hearth.  On  a  table  lay  a  German  flute, 
some  music,  a  pair  of  shuttle  cocks,  and  a  volume  of 
the  Annual  Register.  Looking  from  the  window,  I 
discovered  my  friend  in  his  waistcoat,  with  a  spade 
in  his  hand,  most  diligently  cultivating  a  spot  of 
ground  in  the  kitchen-garden.  Our  mutual  joy,  and 
congratulations  at  meeting,  it  is  needless  to  trouble 
you  with.  In  point  of  figure.  I  could  not  help  re- 
marking, that  Mordaunt,  though  most  negligently 
apparalled,  was  altered  much  for  the  better,  being 
now  plump,  rosy,  and  robust,  instead  of  pale  and  slen- 
der as  formerly.  Before  returning  to  the  house  he 
insisted  that  I  should  survey  his  grounds,  which  in 
his  own  opinion  he  said,  he  had  rendered  a  paradise, 
by  modestly  seconding  and  bringing  forth  the  inten- 
tions of  nature.  I  was  conducted  to  a  young  grove, 
which  he  had  planted  himself;  rested  in  a  hut  which 
he  had  built,  and  drank  from  a  rivulet  for  which  he 
had  tracked  a  channel  with  his  own  hands.  During  the 
course  of  this  walk,  we  were  attended  by  a  flock  of 
tame  pigeons,  which  he  fed  with  grain  from  his  pock- 
et, and  had  much  conversation  with  a  ragged  family 
of  little  bovs  and  girls,  all  of  whom  seemed  to  be  his 
intimate  acquaintance.  Near  a  village  in  our  way 
homewards,  we  met  a  set  of  countrymen,  engaged  at 
cricket,  and  soon  after  a  marriage  company,  dancing 
the  bride's  dance  upon  the  green.  My  friend,  with 
a  degree  of  gaiety  and  alacrity  which  1  had  never  be- 
fore seen  him  display,  not  only  engaged  himself,  but 
compelled  me  likewise  to  engage,  in  the  exercise  of 
the  one,  and  the  merriment  of  the  other.     In  a  field 


254  THE    MIRROR. 

before  his  door,  an  old  horse,  blind  of  one  eye,  came 
up  to  us  at  his  call,  and  eat  the  remainder  of  the 
grain  from  his  hand. 

Our  conversation  for  that  evening,  relating  chiefly 
to  the  situation  of  our  common  friends,  the  memory 
of  former  scenes  in  which  we  had  both  been  engaged, 
and  other  such  subjects  as  friends  naturally  converse 
abort  after  along  absence,  afforded  me  little  opportu- 
nity of  satisfying  my  curiosity.  Next  morning  I 
arose  at  my  wonted  early  hour,  and  stepping  into  his 
study,  found  it  unoccupied.  Upon  examining  a  heap 
of  books  and  papers  that  lay  confusedly  mingled  on 
the  table  and  the  floor,  1  was  surprised  to  find,  that  by 
much  the  greater  part  of  them,  instead  of  poiilics, 
metaphysics,  and  morals  (the  sciences  connected 
with  his  scheme  of  writing,)  treated  of  Belles  Let- 
tres,  or  were  calculated  merely  for  amusement.  The 
Tale  of  a  Tub  lay  open  on  the  table,  and  seemed  to 
have  concluded  the  studies  of  the  day  before.  The 
letters  of  Junius,  Brydon's  Travels,  the  World, 
Tristram  Shandy,  and  two  or  three  volumes  of  the 
British  Poets,  much  used,  and  very  dirty,  lay  scat- 
tered above  a  heap  of  quartos,  which,  after  blowing 
the  dust  from  them,  I  found  to  be  an  Essay  on  the 
Wealth  of  Nations,  Helvetius  de  1'Esprit,  Hume's 
Essays,  the  Spirit  of  Laws,  Bayle,  and  a  common- 
place-book. The  last  contained  a  great  deal  of  pa- 
per, and  an  excellent  arrangement,  under  the  heads 
of  which,  excepting  these  of  anecdote  and  criticism, 
hardly  any  thing  was  collected.  The  papers  in  his 
own  hand-writing  were-  a  parallel  between  Mr.  Gray's 
Elegy,  and  Parnell's  Night-piece  on  Death  ;  some 
detached  thoughts  on  propriety  of  conduct  and  beha- 
viour ;  a  Fairy  Tale  in  vc:  se  ;  and  several  letters  to 
the  Author  of  the  Mirror,  all  of  them  blotted  and 
unfinished.  There  was  besides  a  journal  of  his  oc- 
cupations for  several  weeks,  from  which,  as  it  af- 
fords a  picture   of  his  situation,  I   transcribe  a  part. 


THE    MIRRuR.  2  55 

u  Thursday,  eleven  at  night,  went  to  bed  :  order- 
"  ed  my  servant  to  wake  me  at  six,  resolving  to  be 
"  busy  all  next  day. 

"  Friday  morning,  waked  a  quarter  before  six  ; 
"  fell  asleep  again,  and  did  not  wake  till  eight. 

"  Till  nine,  read  the  first  act  of  Voltaire's  Maho- 
"  met,  as  it  was  too  late  to  begin  serious  business. 

"  Ten  :  having  swallowed  a  short  breakfast,  went 
"  out  for  a  moment  in  my  slippers — The  wind  having 
"  left  the  east,  am  engaged,  by  the  beauty  of  the 
"  day,  to  continue  my  walk — Find  a  situation  by  the 
"  river,  where  the  sound  of  my  flute  produced  a  very 
"  singular  and  beautiful  echo — make  a  stanza  and  a 
"  half  by  way  of  address  to  it — visit  the  shepherd 
"  lying  ill  of  a  low  fever — find  him  somewhat  better 
"  (Mem.  to  send  him  some  wine) — meet  the  parson, 
"  and  cannot  avoid  asking  him  to  dinner — returning 
"  home,  find  my  reapers  at  work — superintend  them 
•*  in  the  absence  of  John,  whom  I  send  to  inform  the 
"  house  of  the  parson's  visit — read,  in  the  mean 
"  time,  part  of  Thompson's  Seasons,  which  I 
u  had  with  me-— From  one  to  six,  plagued  with  the 
"  parson's  news  and  stories — take  up  Mahomet  to 
"  put  me  in  good  humour — finish  it,  the  time  allot- 
"  ted  for  serious  study  being  elapsed — at  eight,  ap- 
"  plied  to  for  advice  by  a  poor  countryman,  who  had 
"  been  oppressed — cannot  say  as  to  the  law :  give 
"  him  some  money — walk  out  at  sun-set,  to  consider 
"  the  causes  of  the  pleasure  arising  from  it — at  nine, 
"  sup  and  sit  till  eleven,  hearing  my  nephew  read, 
"  and  conversing  with  my  mother,  who  wasremark- 
"  ably  well  and  cheerful— go  to  bed. 

"  Saturday  :  some  company  arrived — to  be  filled 
"  up  to-morrow — (for  that  and  the  two  succeeding 
"  days,  there  was  no  further  entry  in  the  journal.) 
"  Tuesday,  waked  at  seven  ;  but  the  weather  being 
"  rainy,  and  threatening  to  confine  me  all  day,  lay 
"  till  after  nine — Ten,  breakfasted  and  read  the  news- 

vol.  i.  z 


256  THE     MIRROR. 

K  papers — very  dull  and  drowsy — Eleven,  day  clears 
"  up,  and  I  resolve  on  a  short  ride  to  clear  my 
«  head." 

A  few  days  residence  with  him  shewed  me  that 
his  life  was  in  reality,  as  it  is  here  represented,  a 
medley  of  feeble  exertions,  indolent  pleasures,  secret 
benevolence,  and  broken  resolutions.  Nor  did  he 
pretend  to  conceal  from  me,  that  his  activity  was  not 
now  so  constant  as  it  had  been  ;  but  he  insisted  that 
he  still  could,  when  he  thought  proper,  apply  with 
his  former  vigour,  and  flattered  himself,  that  these 
frequent  deviations  from  his  plan  of  employment, 
which  in,  reality,  were  the  fruit  of  indolence  and 
weakness,  arose  from  reason  and  conviction.  "  After 
M  all,"  said  he  to  me  one  day,  when  I  was  endea- 
vouring to  undeceive  him,  "  after  all,  granting  what 
"  you  allege,  if  I  be  happy,  and  I  really  am  so, 
"  what  more  could  activity,  fame,  or  preferment,  be- 

M  stow  upon  me  ?" After  a  stay  of  some  weeks, 

I  departed,  convinced  that  his  malady  was  past  a 
cure,  and  lamenting  that  so  much  real  excellence 
and  ability  should  be  thus,  in  a  great  measure,  lost  to 
the  world,  as  well  as  to  their  possessor,  by  the  at- 
tendance of  a  single  fault. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


THE    MIRROR.  257 

No.  LI.     TUESDAY,  JULY  20. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 

Mr,  Mirror, 

I  AM  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  easy,  though 
moderate  fortune.  My  mother  died  a  few  weeks  after 
I  was  born  ;  and  before  I  could  be  sensible  of  the 
loss,  a  sister  of  her's,  the  widow  of  an  English  gen- 
tleman, carried  me  to  London,  where  she  resided. 
As  my  aunt  had  no  children,  I  became  the  chief  ob- 
ject of  her  affections  ;  and  her  favourite  amusement 
consisted  in  superintending  my  education.  As  I  grew 
up,  I  was  attended  by  the  best  masters  ;  and  every 
new  accomplishment  I  acquired,  gave  fresh  pleasure 
to  my  kind  benefactress.  But  her  own  conversation 
tended  more  than  any  thing  else  to  form  and  improve 
my  mind.  Well  acquainted  herself  with  the  best  au- 
thors in  the  English,  French,  and  Italian  languages, 
she  was  careful  to  put  into  my  hands  such  books  as 
were  best  calculated  to  cultivate  my  understanding, 
and  to  regulate  my  taste. 

But,  though  fond  of  reading  and  retirement,  my 
aunt  thought  it  her  duty  to  mingle  in  society,  as 
much  as  her  rank  and  condition  required.  Her  house 
was  frequented  by  many  persons  of  both  sexes,  dis- 
tinguished for  elegance  of  manners,  and  politeness  of 
conversation.  Her  tenderness  made  her  desirous  to 
find  out  companions  for  me  of  my  own  age  ;  and,  far 
from  being  dissatisfied  with  our  youthful  sallies,  she 
seemed  never  better  pleased  than  when  she  could  add 
to  our  amusement  and  happiness. 

In  this  manner  I  had  passed  my  time,  and  had  en- 
tered my  seventeenth  year  when  my  aunt  was  seized 
with  an  indisposition,  which  alarmed  me  much, 
although  her  physicians  assured  me  it  was  by  no 
means  dangerous.     My  fears  increased,  on  observing, 


258  THE    MIRROR. 

that  she  herself  thought  it  serious.  Her  tenderness 
seemed,  if  possible,  to  increase  ;  and,  though  she 
was  desirous  to  conceal  her  apprehensions,  I  have 
sometimes,  when  she  imagined  1  did  not  observe  it, 
found  her  eyes  fixed  on  me  with  a  mixture  of  soli- 
citude and  compassion,  that  never  failed  to  overpow- 
er me. 

One  day  she  called  me  into  her  closet,  and,  after 
embracing  me  tenderly,  "My  dear  Harriet,"  said  she, 
it  is  vain  to  dissemble  longer  :  I  feel  my  strength 
decay  so  fast,  that  I  know  we  soon  must  part. 
As  to  myself,  the  approach  of  death  gives  me  lit- 
tle uneasiness  ;  and  I  thank  Almighty  God  that  I 
can  look  forward  to  that  awful  change,  without 
dread,  and  without  anxiety.  But  when  I  think, 
my  child,  of  the  condition  in  which  I  shall  leave 

you,  my  heart  swells  with  anguish  1 You  know 

my  situation  ;  possessed  of  no  fortune,  the  little  I 
have  saved  from  my  jointure,  will  be  altogether  in- 
adequate to  support  you  in  that  society  in  which 
you  have  hitherto  lived.  When  I  look  back  on  my 
duct  tc  wards  you,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  has 
been  ;  Itegether  prudent.  I  thought  it  impossible 
to  bestow  too  much  on  your  education,  or  to  render 
you  too  accomplished.  I  fondly  hoped  to  live  to 
see  you  happily  established  in  life,  united  to  a  man 
who  could  discern  your  merit,  who  could  put  a  just 
value  on  all  your  acquirements.  These  hopes  are 
at  an  end  ;  all,  however,  that  can  now  be  done,  I 

have  done. Here  are  two  papers  ;  by  the  one 

you  will  succeed  to  the  little  I  shall  leave  :  the 
other  is  a  letter  to  your  father,  in  which  I  have 
recommended  you  in  the  most  earnest  manner  to 
his  protection,  and  intreated  him  to  come  to  town 
as  soon  as  he  hears  of  my  death,  and  conduct  you 
to  Scotland.  He  is  a  man  of  virtue  ;  and  I  hope 
you  will  live  happily  in  his  family.  One  only  fear 
I  have,  and  that  proceeds  from  the  extreme  sensi- 


JHi:  mirror.  259 

"  bility  of  your  mind,  and  gentleness  of  yourdispov 
u  sition  ;  little  formed  by  nature  to  struggle  with  the 
"  hardships  and  the  difficulties  of  life,  perhaps  the  en- 
"  gaging;  softness  of  your  temper  lias  rather  been  in- 
«  creased  by  the  education  you  have  received.  I 
M  trust,  however,  that  your  good  sense  will  prevent 
a  you  from  being  hurt  by  any  little  cross  untoward 
<;  accidents  you  may  meet  with,  and  that  it  will 
<k  enable  you  to  make  the  most  of  that  situation  in 
"  which  it  may  be  the  will  of  Heaven  to  place  you" 

To  all  this  I  could  only  answer  with  my  tears  ;  and, 
during  the  short  time  that  my  aunt  survived,  she  en- 
grossed my  attention  so  entirely,  that  I  never  once 
bestowed  a  thought  on  myself.  As  soon  after  her 
death  as  I  could  command  myself  sufficiently,  I  wrote 
to  my  father  ;  and,  agreeably  to  my  aunt's  instruc- 
tions, inclosed  her  letter  for  him  ;  in  consequence  of 
which  he  came  to  town  in  a  few  weeks.  Meeting 
with  a  father,  to  whose  person  I  was  a  perfect  stran- 
ger, and  on  whom  I  was  ever  after  entirely  to  depend, 
was  to  me  a  most  interesting  event.  My  aunt  had 
taught  me  to  entertain  for  him  the  highest  reverence 
and  respect ;  but,  though  I  had  been  in  use  to  write, 
from  time  to  time,  both  to  him,  and  to  a  lady  he  had 
married  not  long  after  my  mother's  death,  I  had  ne- 
ver been  able  to  draw  either  the  one  or  the  other  into 
any  thing  like  a  regular  correspondence  ;  so  that  I 
was  equally  a  stranger  to  their  sentiments  and  dispo- 
sitions as  to  their  persons. 

On  my  father's  arrival,  I  could  not  help  feeling,that 
he  did  not  return  my  fond  caresses  with  that  warmth 
with  which  I  had  made  my  account ;  and,  afterwards, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  remark,  that  he  was  altoge- 
ther deficient  in  those  common  attentions  which,  in 
polite  society,  every  woman  is  accustomed  to  receive, 
even  from  those  with  whom  she  is  most  nearly  con- 
nected. My  aunt  had  made  it  a  rule  to  consider  her 
domestics  as  humble  friends,  and  to  treat  them  as 
z  2 


260  THE   MIRROR. 

such  ;  but  my  father  addressed  them  with  a  rough- 
ness of  voice  and  of  manner  that  disgusted  them, 
and  was  extremely  unpleasant  to  me.  I  was  still 
more  hurt  with  his  minute  and  anxious  enquiries 
about  the  fortune  my  aunt  had  died  possessed  of  ; 
and,  when  he  found  how  inconsiderable  it  was,  he 
swore  a  great  oath,  that  if  he  had  thought  she  was 
to  breed  me  a  fine  lady,  and  leave  me  a  beggar,  I 
never  should  have  entered  her  house.  "  But  don't 
"  cry,  Harriet,"  added  he,  "  it  was  not  your  fault  ; 
"  be  a  good  girl,  and  you  shall  never  want  while  I 
"  have." 

On  our  journey  to  Scotland,  I  sometimes  attempt- 
ed to  amuse  my  father  by  engaging  him  in  conver- 
sation ;  but  I  never  was  lucky  enough  to  hit  on  any 
subject  on  which  he  wished  to  talk.  After  a  journey, 
which  many  circumstances  concurred  to  render  rather 
unpleasant,  we  arrived  at  my  father's  house-  I  had 
been  told  that  it  was  situated  in  a  remote  part  of  Scot- 
land, and  thence  I  concluded  the  scene  around  it  to 
be  of  that  wild  romantic  kind,  of  all  others  the  best 
suited  to  my  inclination.  But  instead  of  the  rocks, 
the  woods,  the  waterfalls  I  had  fancied  to  myself,  I 
found  an  open,  bleak,  barren  moor,  covered  with 
heath,  except  a  few  patches  round  the  house,  which 
my  father,  by  his  skill  in  agriculture,  had  brought  to 
bear  grass  and  corn. 

My  mother-in-law,  a  good-looking  woman,  about 
forty,  with  a  countenance  that  bespoke  frankness  and 
good-humour,  rather  than  sensibility  or  delicacy,  re- 
ceived me  with  much  kindness  ;  and,  after  giving  me 

a  hearty  welcome  to ,  presented  me  to  her  two 

daughters,  girls  about  fourteen  or  fifteen,  with  ruddy 
complexions,  and  every  appearance  of  health  and 
contentment.  We  found  with  them  a  Mr.  Plow- 
share, a  young  gentleman  of  the  neighbourhood, 
who,  I  afterwards  learned,  farmed  his  own  estate,  and 
was  considered  by  my  father  as  the  most  respectable 


THE   MIRROR.  261 

man  in  the  county.  They  immediately  got  into  a 
dissertation  on  farming,  and  the  different  modes  of 
agriculture  practised  in  the  different  parts  of  the 
country,  which  continued  almost  without  interruption 
till  some  time  after  dinner,  when  my  father  fell  fast 
asleep.  But  this  made  no  material  alteration  in  the 
discourse  ;  for  Mr.  Plowshare  and  the  ladies  then 
entered  into  a  discussion  of  the  most  approved  me- 
thods of  feeding  poultry  and  fattenting  pigs,  which 
lasted  till  the  evening  was  pretty  far  advanced.  It 
is  now  some  months  since  I  arrived  at  my  father's, 
during  all  which  time  I  have  scarcely  ever  heard  any 
other  conversation.  You  may  easily  conceive,  Sir, 
the  figure  I  make  on  such  occasions.  Though  the 
good-nature  of  my  mother-in-law  prevents  her  from 
saying  so,  I  can  plainly  perceive  that  she,  as  well  as 
my  sisters,  consider  me  as  one  who  has  been  ex- 
tremely ill  educated,  and  as  ignorant  of  every  thing 
that  a  young  woman  ought  to  know. 

When  I  came  to  the  country,  I  proposed  to  pals 
great  part  of  my  time  in  my  favourite  amusement  of 
reading  ;  but,  on  enquiry,  I  found  that  my  father's 
library  consisted  of  a  large  family  Bible,  Dickson's 
Agriculture,  and  a  Treatise  on  Farriery ;  and  that 
the  only  books  my  mother  was  possessed  of  were5 
the  Domestic  Medicine,  and  the  Complete  House- 
wife. 

In  short,  Sir,  in  the  midst  of  a  family  happy  in 
themselves,  and  desirous  to  make  me  so,  I  find  my- 
self wretched.  My  mind  preys  upon  itself.  When  I 
look  forward,  I  can  discover  no  prospect  of  any  peri- 
od to  my  sorrows.  At  times  I  am  disposed  to  envy 
the  happiness  of  my  sisters,  and  to  wish  that  I  had 
never  acquired  those  accomplishments  from  which  I 
formerly  received  so  much  pleasure.  Is  it  vanity  that 
checks  this  wish,  and  leads  me,  at  other  times,  to 
think,  that  even  happiness  may  be  purchased  at  too 
dear  a  rate  ? 


262  THE   MIRROR. 

Some  time  ago  I  accidentally  met  with  your  paper, 
and  at  length  resolved  to  describe  my  situation  to  you, 
partly  to  fill  up  one  of  rny  tedious  hours,  and  partly  in 
hopes  of  being  favoured  with  your  sentiments  on  a  spe- 
cies of  distress,  which  is  perhaps  more  poignant  than 
many  other  kinds  of  affliction  that  figure  more  in  the 
eyes  of  mankind.  I  am,  &c. 

E  H.  B. 


No.  LII.     SATURDAY,  JULY  24. 

To  the  Author  of  the  Mirror. 
Duke  et  decorum  est  propatria  mori.  Hon. 

Sir, 

IT  has  always  been  a  favourite  opinion  with  me, 
"  that  whoever  could  make  two  ears  of  corn,  or 
"  two  blades  of  grass,  grow  upon  a  fpot  of  ground 
"  where  only  one  grew  before,  would  deserve  better 
"  of  mankind,  and  do  more  essential  service  to  his 
"  country,  than  the  whole  race  of  politicians  put  toge- 
"  ther."  Possessed  with  this  idea,  I  have  long  bent 
my  thoughts  and  study  towards  those  enquiries  which 
conduce  to  the  melioration  of  the  earth's  productions, 
and  to  increase  the  fertility  of  my  native  country.  I 
shall  not  at  present  tire  you  with  an  account  of  the  va- 
rious projects  I  have  devised,  the  sundry  experiments 
I  have  made,  and  the  many  miscarriages  I  have 
met  with.  Suffice  it  to  6ay,  that  I  have  now  in  my 
brain  a  scheme,  the  success  of  which,  I  am  confident, 
can  scarcely  fail.  The  frequent  disappointments, 
however,  I  have  formerly  experienced,  induce  me 
to  consult  you  about  my  plan,  before  I  take  any  fur- 


THE    MIRROR.  263 

ther  steps  towards  carrying  it  into  execution.  You 
are  an  author,  Sir,  and  must  consequently  be  a  man 
of  learning-  :  you  informed  us  you  had  travelled,  and 
you  must  of  course  be  a  much  wiser  man  than  I, 
who  never  was  an  hundred  miles  from  the  place 
where  I  now  write  :  for  these  reasons,  I  am  induced 
to  lay  my  present  scheme  before  you,  and  to  intreat 
your  opinion  of  it. 

In  the  introduction  to  the  Tales  of  Guillaume 
Vade,  published  by  the  celebrated  Voltaire,  is  the 
following  passage,  given  as  part  of  the  speech  ©f 
Vade  to  his  cousin  Catharine  Vade,  when  she  asked 
him  where  he  would  be  buried  ?  After  censuring  the 
practice  of  burying  in  towns  and  churches,  and 
commending  the  better  custom  of  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  who  were  interred  in  the  country,  "  What 
"  pleasure,"  says  he,  "  would  it  afford  to  a  good  ci- 
"  tizen  to  be  sent  to  fatten,  for  example,  the  barren 
"  plain  of  Sablons,  and  to  contribute  to  raise  plenti- 
"  ful  harvests  there  ? — By  this  prudent  establishment, 
"  one  generation  would  be  useful  to  another,  towns 
<l  would  be  more  wholesome,  and  the  country  more 
"  fruitful.  In  truth,  I  cannot  help  saying  that  we 
"  want  police  in  that  matter,  on  account  both  of  the 
"  living  and  the  dead." 

To  me,  Sir,  who  now  and  then  join  the  amusement 
of  reading  to  the  employment  of  agriculture,  the 
above  passage  has  always  appeared  particularly  de- 
serving of  attention  ;  and  I  have,  at  last,  formed  a 
sort  of  computation  of  the  advantages  which  would 
accrue  to  the  country  from  the  general  adoption  of 
such  a  plan  as  that  suggested  by  Monsieur  Vade. 
Jf  the  managers  of  the  public  burying-grounds  were, 
at  certain  intervals,  and  for  certain  valuable  consider- 
ations, to  lend  their  assistance  to  the  proprietors  of 
the  fields  and  meadows,  how  many  beneficial  conse- 
quences would  result  to  the  public  ?  How  many  of 
the  honest  folks,  who  now  lie  uselessly  mouldering  in 


264  THE    MIRROR. 

our  church-yards,  and  never  did  the  smallest  good 
while  alive,  would  thus  be  rendered,  after  death,  of 
the  most  essential  service  to  the  community  ?  How 
many  who  seemed  brought  into  the  world  merely 
M  Friiges  consumere  nati,"  might  thus,  by  a  proper 
and  just  retribution,  be  employed  to  produce  "fruges" 
similar  to  those  which  they  consumed  while  in  life  ? 
What  apleasant  and  equitable  kind  of  retaliation  would 
it  be  for  a  borough  or  corporation  to  obtain,  from  the 
bodies  of  a  parcel  of  fat  magistrates,  swelled  up  with 
city-feasts  and  rich  wines,  a  sum  of  money  that  might, 
in  some  degree,  compensate  for  the  expence  which 
the  capacious  bellies  of  their  owners  one  day  cost  the 
town-revenue  ? 

The  general  effects  of  this  plan,  and  the  particu- 
lar attention  it  would  necessarily  produce  in  the  oeco- 
nomy  of  sepulture,  would  remove  the  complaints  I 
have  often  heard  made  in  various  cities,  of  the  want 
of  space  and  size  in  their  burying-grounds.  Those 
young  men  who  die  of  old  age  at  thirty,  and  the 
whole  body  of  the  magistrates  and  council  of  some 
towns,  who  are  in  such  a  state  of  corruption  during 
their  lives,  might  very  soon  be  wiade  useful  after 
their  death.  It  has  been  often  said,  that  a  living 
man  is  more  useful  than  a  dead  one  ;  but  I  deny  it  ; 
for  it  will  be  found,  that  if  ever  my  proposal  takes 
place,  that  one  dead  man,  at  least  of  the  species 
above  mentioned,  will  be  of  more  use  than  fifty  liv- 
ing ones. 

I  am  well  aware,  that  most  of  the  fair-sex,  and 
some  such  odd  mortals  as  your  Mr.  Wentworth  or 
Mr.  Fleetwood,  may  possibly  be  shocked  at  this  plan, 
and  may  cry  out,  that  it  would  be  a  great  indelicacy 
done  to  the  remains  of  our  friends.  I  do  not,  how- 
ever, imagine  this  ought  to  have  much  weight,  when 
the  good  of  one's  country  is  concerned.  These  very 
people,  Mr.  Mirror,  would  not,  I  dare  say,  for  the 
world,  cut  the  throat  of  a  sheep,  or  pull  the  neck  of 


THE    MIRROR.  265 

a  hen  off  joint  ;  yet  when  they  are  at  table,  they 
make  no  scruple  to  eat  a  bit  of  mutton,  or  the  wing 
of  a  pullet,  without  allowing  a  thought  of  the  but- 
cher or  the  cook  to  have  a  place  at  the  entertainment. 
In  like  manner,  when  these  delicate  kind  of  people 
happen  to  see  a  very  beautiful  field  of  wheat,  which 
is  a  sight  every  way  as  pleasant  as  a  leg  of  good 
mutton,  or  a  fine  fowl,  let  them  never  distress  them- 
selves by  investigating,  whether  the  -field  owes  its 
peculiar  excellence  to  the  church-yard  or  the  stable. 
As  the  ladies,  however,  are  of  very  great  importance 
in  this  country,  I  think  it  is  proper  that  their  good- 
will be  gained  over,  if  possible.  I  would,  therefore, 
humbly  propose,  in  compliment  to  the  delicacy  of 
their  sensations,  that  their  purer  ashes  never  be  em- 
ployed in  the  culture  of  oats,  to  fill  the  bellies  of 
vulgar  ploughmen  and  coach-horses.  No  1  very  far 
be  it  from  me  to  entertain  any  such  coarse  idea.  Let 
them  be  set  apart,  and  solely  appropriated  to  the  use 
of  parterres  and  flower-gardens.  A  philosopher  in 
ancient  times,  1  forget  who,  has  defined  a  lady  to  be 
"  an  animal  that  delights  in  finery  ;"  and  other  phi- 
losophers have  imagined,  that  the  soul,  after  death, 
takes  pleasure  in  the  same  pursuits  it  was  fond  of 
while  united  to  the  body.  What  a  heavenly  gratifica- 
tion, then,  will  it  prove  to  the  soul  of  a  toast,  while 
"  she  rides  in  her  cloud,  on  the  wings  of  the  roaring 
"  wind,"  to  look  down  and  view  her  remains  upon 
earth,  of  as  beautiful  a  complexion,  and  as  gaily 
and  gaudily  decorated,  as  ever  herself  was  while  a- 
live? 

One  of  your  predecessors,  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  I 
think,  tells  us,  that  in  a  bed  of  fine  tulips  he  found 
the  most  remarkable  flowers  named  after  celebrated 
heroes  and  kings.  He  speaks  of  the  beauty  and  vi- 
vid colouring  of  the  Black  Prince,  and  the  Duke  of 
Vendome,  of  Alexander  the  Great,  the  Emperor  of 
Germany,  the   Duke   of    Marlborough,  and   many 


256  THE    MIRROR. 

others.  How  much  more  natural,  as  well  as  more 
proper,  would  it  be,  to  have  our  flowers  christened 
after  those  beautiful  females,  to  whom,  in  all  proba- 
bility, they  really  owed  their  peculiar  beauty  ?  We 
might  have  Lady  Flora,  Lady  Violet,  Miss  Lily,  and 
Miss  Rose,  and  all  the  beauties  of  our  remembrance 
renovated  to  our  admiring  eyes. 

I  am  much  inclined  to  believe,  that  the  improve- 
ment I  am  here  suggesting  was  known  to,  and  prac- 
tised by  the  ancients,  particularly  by  the  Greeks  and 
Remans  ;  for  we  read  in  their  poets  of  Narcissus, 
Cyax,  Smilax,  and  Crocus,  HyacintLus,  Adonis,  arc! 
Minthe,  being  after  their  deaths  metamorphosed  in- 
to flowers  ;  and  of  the  sisters  of  Phaeton,  Pyramus 
and  Thisbe,  Baucis  and  Philemon,  Daphne,  Cyparis- 
sus,  and  Myrrha,  and  many  more,  being  converted 
into  trees.  jNow  these  stories,  Mr.  Mirror,  when 
stripped  of  their  poetical  ornaments,  can,  in  my  opi- 
nion, bear  no  other  interpretation  than  that  the  ashes 
of  those  people  were  applied  to  such  useful  purposes 
as  1  am  now  proposing. 

You  will  here  observe,  Mr.  Mirror,  that  besides 
the  great  utility  of  the  scheme,  there  will  be  much 
room  for  the  imagination  to  delight  itself,  in  tracing 
out  analogies,  and  refining  upon  the  general  hint  I 
have  thrown  cut.  Your  Bath  Toyman  would  have 
many  very  ingenious  conceits  upon  the  occasion,  and 
would  exercise  his  genius  in  devising  fanciful  appli- 
cations of  the  differcrt  manures  he  would  make  it 
his  business  to  procure.  He  would  have  a  plot  of 
rue  and  wormwood  raised  by  old  maidens  ;  he  would 
apply  the  ashes  of  martyrs  in  love  to  his  pine-trees  ; 
the  dust  of  aldermen  and  rich  citizens  might  be  used 
in  the  culture  of  plums  and  gooseberries  ;  a  set  of 
fine  gentlemen  would  be  laid  aside  for  the  culture  of 
cocks-combs,  none-so-prettys,  and  narcissuses  ;  the 
clergy  and  church-orlkers  would  be  manure  for  the 
holly  and  elder  ;  and  the  posthumous  productions  of 


THE    MIRROR.  267 

poets  would  furnish  bays  and  laurels  for  their  succes- 
sors :  but  I  tire  you,  Mr.  Mirror,  with  these  trifling 
fancies  ;  the  utility  of  my  plan  is  what  I  value  myself 
upon,  and  desire  your  opinion  of. 
1  am,  Sir, 
Your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

Posthumous   Agricola. 

Q 


No.  LIH.     TUESDAY,  JULY  26. 

To  the  Aw.hor  of  the  Mirror. 

Sir, 

I  AM  one  of  the  young  women  mentioned  in  two 
letters  which  you  published  in  your  12th  and  25th 
numbers,  though  I  did  not  know  till  very  lately  that 
our  family  had  been  put  into  print  in  the  Mirror. 
Since  it  is  so,  1  think  I  too  may  venture  to  write  you 
a  letter,  which,  if  it  be  not  quite  so  well  written  as 
my  father's  (though  I  am  no  great  admirer  of  his 
style  neither,)  will  at  least  be  as  true. 

Soon  after   my  Lady 's  visit  at  our  house,  of 

which  the  last  of  my  father's  letters  informed  you, 
a  sister  of  his,  who  is  married  to  a  man  of  business 
here  in  Edinburgh,  came  with  her  husband  to  see 
us  in  the  country  ;  and,  though  my  sister  Mary  and 
]  soon  discovered  many  vulgar  things  about  them, 
yet,  as  they  were  both  very  good  humoured  sort  of 
people,  and  took  great  pains  to  make  themselves  a- 
greeable,  we  could  not  help  looking  with  regret  to 
the  time  of  their  departure.  When  that  drew  near, 
they  surprised  us  by  an  invitation  to  me,  to  come  and 
spend  some  months  with  my  cousins  in  town,  saying, 

VOL.  i.  a  a 


268  THE    MIRROR. 

that  my  mother  could  not  miss  my  company  at  home, 
while  she  had  so  good  a  companion  and  assistant  in 
the  family  as  her  daughter  Mary. 

To  me  there  were  not  30  many  allurements  in  this 
journey  as  might  have  been  imagined.  I  had  lately 
been  taught  to  look  on  London  as  the  only  capital 
worth  visiting  ;  besides  that,  I  did  not  expect  the  high- 
est satisfaction  from  the  society  I  should  meet  with 
at  my  aunt's,  which,  I  confess,  I  was  apt  to  suppose 
none  of  the  most  genteel.  I  contrived  to  keep  the 
matter  in  suspense  (for  it  was  left  entirely  to  my  own 
determination)   till  I   should   write  for  the  opinion  of 

my  friend  Lady on  the   subject ;  for,   ever 

since  our  first  acquaintance,  we  have  kept  up  a  con- 
stant and  regular  correspondence.  In  our  letters, 
which  were  always  written  in  a  style  of  the  warmest 
affection,  we  were  in  the  way  of  talking  with  the 
greatest  freedom  of  every  body  of  our  acquaintance. 
It  was  delightful,  as  her  ladyship  expressed  it,  "  to 
"  unfold  one's  feelings  in  the  bosom  of  friendship  ;" 
and  she  accordingly  was  wont  to  send  me  the  most 
natural  and  lively  pictures  of  the  company  who  resort- 
ed to  — —  ;  and  I,  in  return,  transmitted  her  many 
anecdotes  of  those  persons  which  chance,  or  a  grea- 
ter intimacy,  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  learning. 
To  prevent  discovery, we  corresponded  under  the  sig- 
natures of  Hortensia  and  Leonora ;  and  some  very 
particular  intelligence  her  ladyship  taught  me  not  to 
commit  to  ink,  but  to  set  down  in  lemon  juice. — I 
wander  from  my  story,  Mr.  Mirror  ;  "but  I  cannot 
"  help  fondly  recalling  (as  Emilia  in  the  novel  says) 
"  those  halcyon  days  of  friendship  and  felicity." 

When  her  ladyship's  answer  arrived,  I  foul  d  her 
clearly  of  opinion  that  I  ought  to  accept  of  my  aunt's 
invitation.  She  was  very  jocular  on  the  manners 
which  she  supposed  I  should  find  in  that  lady's  fami- 
ly ;  but  she  said  I  might  take  the  opportunity  of  mak- 
ingsome    acquirements,    which  London  alone  could 


THE   MIRROR.  269 

perfect,  Edinburgk  might,  in  some  degree,  commu- 
nicate. She  concluded  her  letter  with  requesting 
the  continuation  of  my  correspondence,  and  a  narra- 
tive of  every  thing  that  was  passing  in  town,  espe- 
cially with  regard  to  some  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
her  acquaintance,  whom  she  pointed  out  to  my  par- 
ticular observation. 

To  Edinburgh,  therefore,  I  accompanied  my  aunt, 
and  found  a  family  very  much  disposed  to  make  me 
happy.  In  this  they  might,  perhaps,  have  succeeded 
more  completely,  had  I  not  acquired,  from  the  in- 
structions of  Lady  ,  and  the  company  I  saw 

at  her  house,  certain  notions  of  polite  life  with  which 
I  did  not  find  any  thing  at  Mr.  — — *■ ~'s  corres- 
pond. It  was  often,  indeed,  their  good  humour 
which  offended  me  as  coarse,  and  their  happiness  that 
struck  me  as  vulgar.  There  was  not  such  a  thing 
as   hip  or  low  spirits  among  them,  a  sort  of  finery 

which,  at ,  I  found  a  person  of  fashion  could 

not  possibly  be  without. 

They  were  at  great  pains  to  shew  me  any  sights 
that  were  to  be  seen,  with  some  of  which  I  was  real- 
ly little  pleased,  and  with  others  I  thought  it  would 
look  like  ignorance  to  seem  pleased.  They  took  me 
to  the  play-house,  where  there  was  little  company, 
and  very  little  attention;  I  was  carried  to  the  con- 
cert, where  the  case  was  exactly  the  same.  I  found 
great  fault  with  both  ;  for  though  I  had  not  much 
skill,  I  had  got  words  enough  for  finding  fault  from 

my  friend  Lady :  upon  which  they   made 

an  apology  for  our  entertainment,  by  telling  me,  that 
the  play-house  was,  at  that  time,  managed  by  a  fid- 
dler, and  the  concert  was  allowed  to  manage  itself. 

Our  parties  at  home  were  agreeable  enough.  I 
florid  Mr.  •  's  and  my  aunt's  visitors  very  dif- 
ferent  from    what  I  had  been   made  to  expect,  and 

not  at  all  the  cocknies  my  Lady ,  and  some 

•f  her  humourous   guests,   used  to  describe.     They 


270  THE    MIRROR. 

were  not,  indeed,  so  polite  as  the  fashionable  com- 
pany I  had  met  at  her  Ladyship's ;  but  they 
were  much  more  civil.  Among  the  rest  was  my 
uncle-in-law's  partner,  a  good  looking  young  man, 
who,  from  the  first,  was  so  particularly  attentive  to 
me  that  my  cousins  jokingly  called  him  my  lover  ; 
and  even  my  aunt  sometimes  told  me  she  believed 
he  had  a  serious  attachment  to  me  ;  but  I  took  care, 
not  to  give  him  any  encouragement,  as  I  had  always 

heard  my  friend  Lady talk  of  the   wife  of 

a  bargeoia  as  the  most  contemptible  creature  in  the 
world. 

The  season  at  last  arrived,  in  which,  I  was  told, 
the  town  would  appear  in  its  gaiety,  a  great  deal  of 
good  company  being  expected  at  the  Races.  For  the 
Races  I  looked  with  anxiety,  for  another  reason  ; 
my  dear  Lady  ■  was  to  be   here  at  that  pe- 

riod. Of  this  1  was  informed  by  a  letter  from  my 
sister.  From  her  ladyship  I  had  not  heard  for  a 
considerable  time,  as  she  had  been  engaged  in  a 
round  of  visits  to  her  acquaintance  in  the  country. 

The  very  morning  after  her  arrival  (for  I  was  on 
the  watch  to  get  intelligence  of  her),  I  called  at  her 
lodgings.  When  the  servant  appeared,  he  seemed 
doubtful  about  letting  me  in  ;  at  last  he  ushered  me 
into  a  little  darkish  parlour,  where,  after  waiting  about 
half  an  hour,  he  brought  me  word,  that  his  lady  could 
not  try  on  the  gown  1  had  brought  then, but  desired  me 
to  fetch  it  next  day  at  eleven.  1  now  perceived  there 
had  been  a  mistake  as  to  my  person  ;  and  telling  the 
fellow,  somewhat  angrily, thatl  wasno  mantua-maker, 
desired  him  to  carry  to  his  lady  a  slip  of  paper,  on 
which  1  wrote  with  a  pencil  the  well-known  name 
of  Leonora.  On  his  going  up  stairs,  I  heard  aloud 
peal  of  laughter   above,  and  soon  after  lie   returned 

with  a  message,  that  Lady ■ was  sorry  she 

was  particularly  engaged  at  present,  and  could  net 
possibly  see  ice.     Think,  Sir,  with    what  astorysh- 


THE   MIRROR.  271 

ment  I  heard  this  message  from  Hortensia.  I  left 
the  house,  I  know  not  whether  most  ashamed  or 
angry  ;  but  afterwards  1  began  to  persuade  myself, 
that  there  might  be  some  particular  reasons  for  Lady 

. 's  not   seeing   me  at  that  time,  which  she 

might  explain  at  meeting  ;  and  I  imputed  the  terms 
of  the  message  to  the  rudeness  or"  simplicity  of  the 
footman.  All  that  day,  and  the  next,  I  waited  impa- 
tiently for  some  note  of  explanation  or  enquiry  from 
her  ladyship,  and  was  a  good  deal  disappointed  when 
1  found  the  second  evening  arrive,  without  having  re- 
ceived any  such  token  of  her  remembrance.  1  weni, 
rather  in  low  spirits,  to  the  play.     I    had   not  beea 

long  in  the  house,  when  I  saw  Lady enter 

the  next  box.  My  heart  Muttered  at  the  sight;  and 
I  watched  her  eyes,  that  I  might  take  the  first  op- 
portunity of  presenting  myself  to  her  notice.  I  saw 
them,  soon  after,  turned  towards  me,  and  immedi- 
ately curtesied,  with  a  significant  smile,  to  my  noble 
friend,  who  being  short-sighted,  it  would  seem, 
which,  however,  I  had  never  remarked  before,  stared 
at  me  for  some  moments,  without  taking  notice  of 
my  salute,  and  at  last  was  just  putting  up  a  glass  to 
her  eye,  to  point  it  at  me,  when  a  lady  pulled  her  by 
the  sleeve,  and  made  her  take  notice  of  somebody 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house.  She  never  after- 
wards happened  to  look  to  that  quarter  where  I  was 
seated. 

Still,  however,  I  was  not  quite  discouraged,  and, 
on  an  accidental  change  of  places  in  our  box,  con- 
trived to  place  myself  at  the  end  of  the  bench  next 
to  her  ladyship's,  so  that  there  was  only  a  piece  of 
thin  board  between  us.  At  the  end  of  the  act,  I 
ventured  to  ask  her  how  she  did,  and  to  express  my 
happiness  at  seeing  her  in  town,  adding,  that  I  had 
called  the  day  before,  but  had  found  her  particularly 
engaged.  "  Why,  yes,"  said  she,  "  Miss  Homespun, 
"  I  am  always  extremely  hurried  in  town,  and  have 
a  a  3 


272  THE  MIRROR. 

44  time  to  receive  only  a  very  few  visit*  ;  but  I  will  be 
44  glad  if  you  will  come  some  morning  and  breakfast 
4  with  me — but  not  to-morrow,  for  there  is  a  morn- 
44  ing  concert ;  nor  next  day,  for  I  have  a  musical 
44  party  at  home.  In  short,  you  may  come  some 
44  morning  next  week,  when  the  hurry  will  be  over, 
4i  and,  if  I  am  not  gone  out  of  town,  I  will  be  hap- 
44  py  to  see  you."  I  don't  know  what  answer  I 
should  have  made  ;  but  she  did  not  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity ;  for  a  gentleman  in  a  green  uniform  coming 
into  the  box,  she  immediately  made  room  for  him  to 
sit  between  us.  He,  after  a  broad  stare  full  in  my 
face,  turned  his  back  my  way,  and  sat  in  that  pos- 
ture all  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

I  am  not  so  silly,  Mr.  Mirror,  but  I  can  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  all  this.  My  lady,  it  seems,  is 
contented  to  have  some  humble  friends  in  the  country, 
whom  she  does  not  think  worthy  of  her  notice  in 
town,  but  I  am  determined  to  shew  her,  that  I  have 
a  prouder  spirit  than  she  imagines,  and  shall  go  not 
near  her,  either  in  town  or  country.  What  is  more, 
my  father  shan't  vote  for  her  friend  at  next  election, 
if  I  can  help  it. 

What  vexes  me  beyond  every  thing  else  is,  that 
I  had  been  often  telling  my  aunt  and  her  daughters 

of  the  intimate  footing  I  was  on  with  Lady , 

and  what  a  violent  friendship  we  had  for  each  other ; 
and  so,  from  envy,  perhaps,  they  used  to  nick-name 
me  the  Countess,  and  Lady  Leonora.  Now  that 
they  had  got  this  story  of  the  mantua-maker  and  the 
playhouse  (for  I  was  so  angry  I  could  not  conceal  it) 
I  am  ashamed  to  hear  the  name  of  a  lady  of  quality 
mentioned,  even  if  it  be  only  in  a  book  from  the 
circulating  library.  Do  write  a  paper,  Sir,  against 
pride  and  haughtiness,  and  people  forgetting  their 
country  friends  and  acquaintance,  and  yon  will  very 
much  oblige 

Your's,  Sec. 
Elizabeth  Homespun 


THE    MIRROR.  273 

P.  S.  My  uncle's  partner,  the  young  gentleman 
I  mentioned  above,  takes  my  part  when  my  cousins 
joke  upoo  intimates  with  great  folks  ;  I  think  he  is 
a  much  genteeler  and  better  bred  man  than  I  tools, 
him  for  at  first. 

Z 


No.  LIV.     SATURDAY,  JULY  31. 

AMONG  the  letters  of  my  correspondents,  I  have 
been  favoured  with  several  containing  observations  on 
the  conduct  and  success  of  my  paper.  Of  these, 
some  recommend  subjects  of  criticism  as  of  a  kind 
that  has  been  extremely  popular  in  similar  periodical 
publications,  and  on  which,  according  to  them,  I 
have  dwelt  too  little.  Others  complain,  that  the  cri- 
tical papers  I  have  published  were  written  in  a  style 
and  manner  too  abstruse  and  technical  for  the  bulk 
of  my  readers,  and  desire  me  to  remember,  that  in 
a  performance  addressed  to  the  world,  only  the  lan- 
guage of  the  world  should  be  used. 

I  was  last  night  in  a  company  where  a  piece  of 
conversation  on  criticism  took  place,  which,  as  the 
speakers  were  well-bred  persons  of  both  sexes,  was 
necessarily  of  tke  familiar  kind.  As  an  endeavour, 
therefore,  to  please  botk  the  above-mentioned  corres- 
pondents, I  shall  set  down,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recol- 
lect, the  discourse  of  the  company.  It  turned  on 
the  tragedy  of  Zara,  at  the  representation  of  which 
all  of  them  had  been  present  a  few  evenings  ago. 

"  It  is  remarkable,"  said  Mr. ,  "  what  an 

"  aera  of  improvement  in  the  French  drama  may  be 
"  marked  from  the  writings  of  M.  de  Voltaire.  The 
"  cold  and  fedious  declamation  of  the  former  French 


274  THE    MIRROR. 

"  tragedians  he  had  taste  enough  to  see  was  not  the 
u  language  of  passion,  and  genius  enough  to  ex- 
'•  ecute  his  pieces  in  a  different  manner.  He  re- 
«*  tained  the  eloquence  of  Corneille,  and  the  tender- 
**  ness  of  Racine  ;  but  he  never  suffered  the  first  to 
P  swell  into  bombast,  nor  the  other  to  sink  into  lan- 
"  gour.  He  accompanied  them  with  the  force  and 
"  energy  of  our  Shakespeare,  whom  he  had  the 
"  boldness  to  follow ;" — "  and  the  meanness  to  decry," 
said   the   lady  of  the  house. — "  He  has  been  unjust 

"  to  Shakespeare,  I   confess,"  replied  Sir  H 

(who  had  been  a  considerable  time  abroad,  and  has 
brought  home  somewhat  more  than  the  language  and 
dress  of  our  neighbours)  ;  "  yet  I  think  I  have  ob- 
"  served  our  partiality  for  that  exalted  poet  carry  us 
"  as  unreasonable  lengths  on  the  other  side.  When 
u  we  ascribe  to  Shakespeare  innumerable  beauties, 
"  we  do  him  but  justice  ;  but,  when  we  will  not  allow 
M  that  he  has  faults,  we  give  him  a  degree  of  praise 
u  to  which  no  writer  is  entitled,  and  which  he,  of 
u  all  men,  expected  the  least.  It  was  impossible* 
u  that,  writing  in  the  situation  he  did,  he  should 
%t  have  escaped  inaccuracies  ;  suffice  it  to  say,  they 
"  always  arose  from  the  exuberance  of  fancy,  not 
"  the  sterility  of  dulness." 

M  There  is  much  truth  in  what  you  say,"  answered 

Mr. ;  "  but  Voltaire  was  unjust  when,  not 

"  satisfied  with  pointing  out  blemishes  in  Shakes- 
"  pea  re,  he  censured  a  whole  nation  as  barbarous  for 
w  admiring  his  works.  He  must,  himself,  have  felt 
"•  the  excellence  of  a  poet,  whom,  in  this  very  tragedy 
"  of  Zara,  he  has  not  disdained  to  imitate,  and  to 
"  imitate  very  closely  too.  The  speech  of  Orasmane 
"  (or  Osman,  as  the  English  translation  calls  him,) 
"  beginning, 

M  J'aurois  d'un  oeil  serene,  d'^ine  front  inalterable," 


1HE    MIRROR.  275 

"  is  almost  a  literal  copy  of  the  complaint  of  Othello: 


•Had  it  rain'd 


All  sons  of  curses  on  me,  &.c. 


44  which  is  perhaps,  the  reason  why  our  translator 
44  has  omitted  it." — "  I  do  not  pretend  to  justify  Vol- 

44  taire,"  returned  Sir  H ;  "  yet  it  must  be 

44  remembered,  in  alleviation,  that  the  French  have 
4i  formed  a  sort  of  national  taste  in  their  theatre, 
44  correct,  perhaps,  almost  to  coldness.  In  Britain, 
44  I  am  afraid,  we  are  apt  to  err  on  the  other  side  ; 
*'  to  mistake  rhapsody  for  fire,  and  to  applaud  a  forced 
44  metaphor  for  a  bold  one.  I  do  not  cite  Dryden, 
44  Lee,  or  the  other  poets  of  their  age  ;  for  that 
41  might  be  thought  unfair  ;  but,  even  in  the  present 
"  state  of  the  English  stage,  is  not  my  idea  war- 
41  ranted  by  the  practice  of  poets,  and  the  applause 
4i  of  the  audience  ?  A  poet  of  this  country,  who  in 
*•  other  passages,  has  often  touched  the  tender  feel- 
44  ings  with  a  masterly  hand,  gives  to  the  hero  of 
a  one  of  his  latest  tragedies,  the  following  speech  : 

Had  I  a  voice  like  .dEtna  when  it  roars, 
For  iii  my  breast  is  pent  as  tierce  a  fire, 
I'd  speak  in  flames. 

*  That  a  man,  in  the   fervour  and  hurry  of  compo- 

4k  sition.  should  set  down  such  an  idea,   is   nothing  ; 

4.4  that  it  should  be  pardoned  by  the  audience,  is  little  ; 

44  but  that  it  should  always  produce  a  clap,  is  strange 

44  indeed  !" 

44  And  is  there  nothing  like  this    in  French  tra- 

44  gedits  ?"  said  the  lady  of  the  house  ;  44  for  there 

44  is,  I  think,   abundance   of  it   in   some  of  ou$  late 

44  imitations  of  them." — 44  Nay,  in  the  translation  of 

44  Zayre,  Madam,"  returned  the  baronet,  44  Flill  has 

44  sometimes  departed  from  the  original,  to  substitute 

4*  a  swelling  and  elaborate  diction.     He  forgets  the 


276  THE    MIRK0R. 

Jj  plain  soldierly  character  of  the  Sultan's  favourite 
(i  Orasmin,  when  he  makes  him  say, 


-Silent  and  dark 


Tli*  unbreathing  world  is  hush'd,  as  if  it  heard 
And  listen'd  to  your  sorrows. 

w  The  original  is  simple  description  ; 

"  Tout  dort,  tout  est  tranquille,  et  I'ombre  de  ia  nuit."— 

"  And  when  the  slave,  in  the  fourth  act,  brings  the 

u  fatal  letter  to  the  Sultan,  and  mentions  the  circum- 

"  stances  of  its  interception,  the   translator  makes 

"  Osman  stay  to  utter  a  sentiment,  which  is  always 

"  applauded  on  the  English  stage,  but  is  certainly, 

"  however  noble  in  itself,  very  ill-placed  here  : 

-Approach  me  like  a  subject 


That  serves  the  prince,  yet  not  forgets  the  man. 

"  Osman  had  no  breath  for  words  :  Voltaire  gives  him 
"  but  five  hurried  ones  : 

"  Donne — qui  la  portajt  ?— donne." 

"  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,   Sir  H ,"  said 

Mr.  ;  "   and   I   may  add,  that   even   Voltaire 

44  seems  to  me  too  profuse  of  sentiments  in  Zara, 
44  which,  beautiful,  as  they  are,  and  though  expres- 
44  sed  with  infinite  delicacy,  are  yet  somewhat  foreign 
44  to  that  native  language  which  feeling  dictates,  and 
"  by  which  it  is  removed.  I  weep  at  a  few  simple 
44  words  expressive  of  distress  ;  I  pause  to  admire  a 
"  sentiment,  and  my  pity  is  forgotten.  The  single  line 
44  uttered  by  Lusignan,  at  the  close  of  his  description 
44  of  the  massacre  of  his  wife  and  children, 

■'  Helas!  et  j'etais  pere,  et  je  ne  pus  mourir," 


THE    MIRROR  277 

u  moves  me  more  than  a  thousand  sentiments,  how 
H  just  or  eloquent  soever." 

"  If  we  think  of  the  noblest  use  of  tragedy,"  said 
Mrs.  ,  "  we  shall,  perhaps,  Sir,  not  be  quite 

"  of  your  opinion.  I,  who  am  a  mother,  wish  my 
"  children  to  learn  some  other  virtues,  beside  com- 
*  passion,  at  a  play  ;  it  is  certainly  of  greater  con- 
u  sequence    to  improve  the  mind  than  to  melt  it." 

"  I  am  sure,  mamma,"  said  a  young  lady,  her 

daughter,  w  the  sentiments  of  tragedy  affect  me  as 
"  much  as  the  most  piteous  description.  When  I 
"  hear  an  exalted  sentiment,  I  feel  my  heart,  as  it 
"  were,  swell  in  my  bosom,  and  it  is  always  follow- 
"  ed  by  a  gush  of  tears  from  my  eyes." — "  You  tell 
"  us  the  effects  of  your  feelings,  child  ;  but  you  djn't 
«  distinguish  the  feelings  themselves* — I  would  have, 
"  gentlemen,"  continued  she,  "  a  play  to  be  vtrtu- 
4«  ous  in  its  sentiments,  and  also  natural  in  its  events. 
"  The  want  of  the  latter  quality,  as  well  as  of  the 
"  former,  has  a  bad  effect  on  young  persons  ;  it  leads 
u  them  to  suppose,  that  such  a  conduct  is  natural 
"  and  allowable  in  common  life,  and  encourages  that 
"  romantic  deception  which  is  too  apt  to  grow  up  in 
"  minds  of  sensibility.  Don't  you  think,  that  the  sud- 
"  den  conversion  of  Zara  to  Christianity,  unsupport- 
"  ed  by  argument,  or  coaviction  of  its  truth,  is  high- 
"  ly  unnatural,  and  may   have  such  a  tendency  as  I 

"  have  mentioned  r" "  I  confess,"  said  Mr. , 

«  that  has  always  appeared  to  me  an  exceptionable 

"  passage." «  I  do   not  believe,  mamma,"  said 

the  young  lady,  "  that  she  was  really  converted  in 
"  opinion ;  but  I  don't  wonder  at  her  crying  out  she 
"  was  a  Christian,  after  such  a  speech  as  that  of  her 
"  father  Lusignan.  I  know  my  heart  was  so  wrung 
"  with  the  scene,  that  I  could,  at  that  moment,  have 
"  almost  become  Mahometan,  to  have  comforted  the 

u  good  old  man." Her  mother  smiled  ;  for  this 

was  exactly  a  confirmation  of  her  remark. 


278  THE    MIRROR. 

"  Voltaire,'*  said    Sir  H ,  "  has,    like  many 

"  other  authors,  introduced  a  dark  scene  into  the  last 
"  act  of  this  tragedy  ;  yet  it  appears  to  me,  that 
"  such  a  scene  gees  beyond  the  power  of  stage-de- 

*  ception,  and  always  hurts  the  piece.  We  cannot 
■*  possibly  suppose,  that  two  persons  walking  upon 
"  the  same  board  do  not  see  each  other,  while  we, 
"  sitting  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house,  see  both  per- 

"  fectly  well." "  I  do  recollect,"   said  the  young 

lady,  "  at  first  wondering  how  Zara  could  fail  to  see 

"  Osman  ;  but  I   soon   forgot  it." rt  Thus  it  al- 

"  ways  is,"  replied  Mr.  M ,  "  in   such  a  case  ; 

"  if  a  poet  has  eloquence  or  genius  enough  to  com- 
"  mand  the  passions,  he  easily  gets  the  better  of 
"  those  stage  improbabilities.  In  truth,  the  scenic 
il  deception  is  of  a  very  singular  nature.  It  is  im- 
K  possible  we  should  imagine  ourselves  spectators  of 
M  the  real  scene,  of  which  the  stage  one  is  an  imi- 
"  tation  ;  the  utmost  length  we  are,  in  reality  car- 
"  ried,  is  to  deliver  over  our  minds  to  that  sym- 
"  pathy,  which  a  proper  and  striking  representation 

*  of  grief,  rage,  or  any  other  passion,  produces. 
"  You  destroy  the  deception,  it  is  said,  when  any 
u  thing  impertinent  or  ludicrous  happens  on  the 
"  stage,  or  among  the  audience  ;  but  you  will  find 
"  the  very  same  effect,  if  a  child  blows  his  three- 
"  halfpenny  trumpet,  in  the  midst  of  a  solo  of  I  is- 
"  cher,  or  a  song  of  Rauzzini  ;  it  stops  the  delight- 
"  ful  current  of  feeling  which  was  carrying  along  the 
"  soul  at  the  time,  and  dissatisfaction  and  pain  are 
"  the  immediate  consequence  ;  yet  in  the  solo  or  the 
**  song,  no  such    deception  as  the  theatrical  is  pre- 

"  tended." Mr. delivered    this  wiih    the 

manner  of  one  who  had  studied  the  subject,  and  no- 
body ventured  to  answer  him. 

"  You  were  mentioning,"  said  Mrs. ■,   "      ol- 

"  taire's  imitation  of  Othello,  in  this  tragedy  ; 
"  collect,  in  the  lastaict,  a  very  strong  instance 


THE     MIRROR.  279 

«  the  concluding  speech  of  Osman,  before  he  stabs 
"  himself,  which  seems  to  be  exactly  taken  from  that 

"  of  the  Moor,  in  a  similar  situation." "  I  remem- 

"  ber  both  speeches  well,"  said  Sir  H ,  4  and  I 

««  think  it  may  be  disputed,  whether  either  of  them 

"  be  congenial  to  the  situation  ?" -You  will  excuse 

«  me,  Sir  H ,"  said  I,  "  if  I  hold  them  both  per- 

*'  fectly  in  nature.  The  calmness  of  desperate  and 
"  irremediable  grief  will  give  vent  to  a  speech  longer 
"  and  more  methodical  than  the  immediate  anguish 
u  of  some  less  deep  and  irretrievable  calamity. 
"  Shakespeare  makes  Othello  refer,  in  the  instant 
"  of  stabbing  himself,  to  a  story  of  his  killing  a 
"  Turk  in  Aleppo ;  the  moment  of  perturbation, 
"  when  such  a  passage  would  have  been  unnatural, 
**  is  past ;  the  act  of  killing  himself  is  then  a  matter 
u  of  little  importance  ;  and  his  reference  to  a  story 
M  seemingly  indifferent,  marks,  in  my  opinion,"  most 
"  forcibly  and  naturally,  the  deep  and  settled  horror  on 
"  Othello's  soul.  I  prefer  it  to  the  concluding  lines  of 
u  the  Sultan's  speech  in  Zara,  which  rest  on  the  story 
«*  of  his  own  misfortune  : 

u  Tell  'em,  I  plung'd  my  dagger  in  her  breast ; 
"  Tell  'em,  I  so  ador'd,  and  thus  reveng'd  her." 

"  You  have  talked  a  great  deal  of  the  author,"  said 
the  young  lady,  "  but  nothing  of  the  actors.     Was 

"  not  the  part  of  Zara  excellently  performed  :" 

u  Admirably,  indeed,"  replied  Mr. ;  "  I  know 

"  no  actress  who  possesses   the   power  of  speaking 

"  poetry,  beyond  Miss  Younge." "  Nor  of  feeling 

"  it  neither,  Sir,  I  think."— iC  I  did  not  mean  to 

"  deny  her  that  quality  ;  but  in  the  other,  I  think  she 
"  is  unrivalled.  She  does  not  reach,  perhaps,  the 
"  impassioned  burst,  the  electric  flash  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
"  ry  ;  nor  has  she  that  deep  and  thrilling  note  of  hor- 
"  ror  with  which  Mrs.  Yates  benumbs  an  audience  ; 

vol.  r.  b  b 


280  THE    MIRROR. 

"  but  there  is  a  melting  tremble  in  her  voice,  which, 
"  in  tender  passages,  is  inimitably  beautiful  and  af- 
"  feeling.  Were  I  a  poet,  I  should  prefer  her 
"  speaking  my  lines  to  that  of  any  actress  I  ever 
"  heard." 

"  She  owes,  I  believe,"  said  our  Frenchman,  "  much 
"  of  her  present  excellence  to  her  study  of  the 
"  French  stage.  I  mean  not  to  detract  from  her 
"  merit :  I  certainly  allow  her  more,  when  I  say, 
"  that  her  excellence  is,  in  great  part,  of  her  own 
"  acquirement,  than  some  of  her  ill-judged  admirers, 
"  who  ascribe  it  all  to  nature.  Our  actors,  indeed, 
"  are  rarely  sensible  how  much  study  and  application 
"  is  due  to  their  profession  ;  people  may  be  spouters 
*'  without  culture  ;  but  laborious  education  alone  can 
"  make  perfect  actors.  Feeling,  and  the  imitative 
"  sympathy  of  passion,  are  undoubtedly,  derived 
"  from  nature  ;  but  art  alone  can  bestow  that  grace, 
u  tnat  refined  expression,  without  which  feeling  will 
"  often  be  awkward,  and  passion  ridiculous." 

Z 


No.  LV.     TUESDAY,  AUGUST  3. 

Dec'pimur  specie  recti.  Hor. 

SINCERITY,  by  which  I  mean  honesty  in  men's 
dealings  with  each  other,  is  a  virtue  praised  by  every 
one,  and  the  practice  of  it  is,  I  believe,  more  com- 
mon than  gloomy  moralists  are  willing  to  allow.  The 
love  of  truth,  and  of  justice,  are  so  strongly  implant- 
ed in  oar  minds,  that  few  men  are  so  hardened,  or 
so  insensible,  as  knowingly  and  deliberately  to  com- 
mit dishonest  actions,  and   a  little   observation  soon 


THE    MIRROR.  281 

convinces  those  who  are  engaged  in  a  variety  of 
transactions,  that  honesty  is  wisdom,  and  knavery- 
folly. 

But  though,  according  to  this  acceptation  of  the 
phrase,  men  are  seldom  insincere,  or  literally  dis- 
honest, in  the  ordinary  transactions  of  life  ;  yet,  I 
believe,  there  is  another  and  a  higher  species  of  sin- 
cerity, which  is  very  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  any 
degree  of  perfection  ;  I  mean  that  sincerity  which 
leads  a  man  to  be  honest  to  himself,  and  to  his  own 
mind,  and  which  will  prevent  him  from  being  imposed 
upon,  or  deceived  by  his  own  passions  and  inclina- 
tions. From  that  secret  approbation  which  our  mind 
leads  us  to  give  to  what  is  virtuous  and  honourable, 
we  cannot  easily  bear  the  consciousness  of  being  dis- 
honest. Hence,  therefore,  when  men  are  desirous 
to  give  way  to  their  evil  inclinations  and  passions, 
they  are  willing,  nay,  at  times,  they  are  even  at  pains 
to  deceive  themselves.  They  look  out  for  some  spe- 
cious apology,  they  seek  for  some  colour  and  disguise, 
by  which  they  may  reconcile  their  conduct  to  the  ap- 
pearance of  right,  and  may  commit  wrong,  under  the 
belief  that  they  are  innocent,  nay,  sometimes  that  they- 
are  acting  a  praise-worthy  part.  Thus  there  are  men 
who  would  abhor  the  thought  of  deceiving  themselves ; 
and,  while  they  believe  that  they  are  sincere,  and  are 
really  so,  in  the  restricted  sense  in  which  I  have  used 
this  word,  are,  in  all  the  important  actions  of  their 
life,  under  the  influence  of  deceit. 

Eubulus  is  a  judge  in  one  of  the  courts  of  law.  Eu- 
bulus  believes  himself  a  very  honest  judge  ;  and  it  is 
but  doing  him  justice  to  allow,  that  he  would  not,  for 
any  consideration,  knowingly,  give  an  unjust  decision  ; 
yet  Eubulus  hardly  ever  gave  a  fair  judgment  in  any 
cause  where  he  was  connected  with,  or  knew  any  thing 
about  the  parties.  If  either  of  them  happen  to  be  his 
friend  or  relation,  or  connected  with  his  friends  or  rela- 
tions, Eubulus  is  sure  always  t»  see  the  cause  in  a  fa- 


282  THE   MIRROR. 

vourable  light  for  that  friend.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
one  of  the  parties  happens  to  be  a  person  whom  Eu- 
bulus  has  a  dislike  to,  that  party  is  sure  to  lose  his  suit. 
In  the  one  case,  he  sits  down  to  examine  the  cause, 
under  all  the  influence  and  partiality  of  friendship  ; 
his  cool  senses  are  run-away  with  ;  his  judgment  is 
blinded,  and  he  sees  nothing  but  the  arguments  on  the 
side  of  his  friend,  and  overlooks  every  thing  stated 
against  him.  In  the  other  case  he  acts  under  the  im- 
pressions of  dislike,  and  his  judgment  is  accordingly 
so  determined.  A  cause  was  lately  brought  before 
Eubulus,  where  every  feeling  of  humanity  and  com- 
passion prompted  the  wish,  that  one  of  the  parties 
might  be  successful ;  but  the  right  was  clearly  on 
the  other  side.  Eubulus  sat  down  to  examine  it  with 
all  the  tender  feelings  full  in  his  mind  ;  they  guided 
his  judgment,  and  he  determined  contrary  to  justice. 
During  all  this,  Eubulus  believes  himself  honest.  In 
one  sense  of  the  word  he  is  so  ;  he  does  not,  knowing- 
ly or  deliberately,  give  a  dishonest  judgment ;  but, 
in  the  higher  and  more  extensive  meaning  of  the 
word,  he  is  dishonest.  He  suffers  himself  to  be  im- 
posed on  by  the  feelings  of  friendship  and  humanity. 
Nay,  far  from  guarding  against  it,  he  aids  the  impo- 
sition, and  becomes  the  willing  dupe  to  his  own  in- 
clinations. 

Licinius  was  a  man  of  learning  and  of  fancy  :  he 

lived  at  a  time  when  the  factions  of  this  country  were 

at  their  greatest  height :  he  entered  into  aH  of  them 

with  the  greatest  warmth,  and,  in  some  of  the  principal 

transactions  of  the  time,  acted  a  considerable  part. 

With  warm  attachments,   and  ungovernad  zeal,  his 

opinions  were  violent,  and  his  prejudices  deep-rooted. 

Licinius  wrote  a  history  of  his  own  times  :  his  zeal 

for  the  interests  he  had  espoused  is  conspicuous  ;  the 

influence  of  his  prejudices  is   apparent ;  his  opinion 

of.  the  characters  of  the  men  of  whom  he  writes,  is 

almost  every  where  dictated  by  his  knowledge  of  the 


THE    MIRROR.  283 

party  to  which  they  belonged  ;  and  his  belief  or  dis- 
belief of  the  disputed  facts  of  the  time,  is  directed 
by  the  connection  they  had  with  his  own  favourite 
opinions.  Phidippus  cannot  talk  with  patience  of 
this  history  or  its  author  ;  he  never  speaks  of  him 
but  as  of  a  mean  lying  fellow,  who  knowingly  wrote 
the  tales  of  a  parly,  and  who,  to  serve  a  faction, 
wished  to  deceive  the  public.  Phidippus  is  mistaken ; 
Licinius,  in  cne  sense  of  the  word,  was  perfectly  ho- 
nest ;  he  did  net  wish  to  deceive  ;  but  he  was  himself 
under  the  influence  of  deception.  The  heat  of  his 
fancy,  the  violence  of  his  zeal,  led  him  away  ;  con- 
vinced that  he  was  much  in  the  right,  he  was  desi- 
rous to  be  still  more  so  ;  he  viewed,  and  was  at  pains 
to  view  every  thing  in  one  light  ;  all  thip  characters, 
and  all  the  transactions  of  the  time,  were  seen  under 
one  colour  ;  and,  under  this  deception  he  saw,  and 
thought,  and  wrote.  When  Phidippus  accuses  Lici- 
nius of  being  wilfully  dishonest,  he  is  mistaken,  and 
is  under  the  influence  of  a  like  deception  with  that 
of  Licinius.  Licinius  wrote  unfairly,  because  he  saw 
every  thing  in  one  light,  and  was  not  at  pains  to  guard 
against  self  deception,  or  to  correct  erroneov,; 
ment.  Phidippus  judges  of.  1  icinms  unfairly,  be- 
cause he  also  is  under  the  ir-fiiie^e^  of  party,  he-  ause 
his  system  and  opinions  are  different  from  those  of 
Licinius,  and  because  this  leads  him  to  judge  harsh- 
ly of  every  one  who  thinks  like  Licinius. 

Lysander  is  a  young  man  of  elegance  and  senti- 
ment ;  but  he  has  a  degree  of  vanity  which  makes 
him  wish  to  be  possessed  of  fortune,  not  to  hoard, 
hut  to  spend  it.  Re  has  a  high  opinion  of  female 
merit  ;  and  would  net,  for  any  consideration,  think 
of  marrying  a  woman  for  whom  he  did  not  believe 
he  felt  the  most  sincere  and  ardent  attachment.  In 
this  situation  of  mind  he  became  acquainted  with 
Leonora  :  Leonora's  father  was  dead,  and  had  left 
her  possessed  of  a  very  considerable  fortune  ;  Lysan- 


234  TiHE    MIRROR. 

der  had  heard  of  Leonora,  and  knew  she  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  fortune  before  ever  he  saw  her.  She  is 
not  remarkable  either  for  the  beauties  of  person  or 
of  mind  ;  but  the  very  first  time  Lysander  saw  her, 
he  conceived  a  prepossession  in  her  favour,  and 
which  has  now  grown  into  a  strong  attachment.  Ly- 
sander believes  it  is  her  merit  only  which  has  pro- 
duced this  ;  and  he  would  hate  himself,  if  he  thought 
Leonorft's  being  possessed  of  a  fortune  had  had  the 
least  influence  upon  him.  But  he  is  mistaken  ;  he 
does  not  know  himself,  nor  that  secret  power  the  de- 
sire of  wealth  has  over  him.  The  knowledge  of 
Leonora's  being  an  heiress,  made  him  secretly  wish 
her  to  be  possessed  of  personal  merit  before  he  saw 
her  ;  when  he  did  see  her,  he  converted  his  wishes 
into  belief  ;  he  desired  to  be  deceived,  and  he  was  so. 
He  conceived  that  she  was  possessed  of  every  ac- 
complishment of  person  and  of  mind  ;  and  his  ima- 
gination being  once  warmed,  he  believed  and  thought 
that  he  felt  a  most  violent  attachment.  Had  Leono- 
ra been  without  a  fortune,  she  would  never  have 
drawn  Lysander's  attention  ;  he  would  have  never 
thought  more  highly  of  her  merit  than  he  did  of  that 
of  most  other  women  ;  and  he  would  not  have  be- 
come the  dupe  of  his  wishes  and  desires. 

Amanda  is  a  young  lady  of  the  most  amiable  dis- 
positions. With  an  elegant  form,  she  possesses  a 
most  uncommon  degree  of  sensibility.  Her  parents 
reside  at  Belfield,  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the  coun- 
try. Here  she  has  few  opportunities  of  being  in 
society,  and  her  time  has  chiefly  been  spent  in  read- 
ing. Books  of  sentiment,  novels,  and  tender  poetry, 
are  her  greatest  favourites.  This  kind  of  rending 
has  increased  the  natural  warmth  and  sensibility  of 
her  mind  :  it  has  given  her  romantic  notions  of  life, 
and  particularly  warm  and  passionate  ideas  about 
love.  The  attachment  of  lovers,  the  sweet  union  of 
hearts,  and  hallowed  sympathy  of  souls,  are  continu- 


THE    MIRROR.  285 

ally  pictured  in  her  mind.  Philemon,  a  distant  re- 
lation of  Amanda's,  happened  to  pay  a  visit  to  Bell- 
field.  Amanda's  romantic  notions  had  hitherto  been 
general,  and  had  no  object  to  fix  upon.  But  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  have  warm  feelings  long,  without  directing 
them  to  some  object.  After  a  short  acquaintance, 
Philemon  became  very  particular  in  his  attentions  to 
her.  Amanda  was  not  displeased  with  them  ;  on 
the  contrary,  she  thought  she  saw  in  him  all  those 
good  qualities  which  she  felt  in  her  own  mind.  Eve- 
ry look,  that  he  gave,  and  every  word  that  he  spoke, 
confirmed  her  in  this.  Every  thing  she  wished  to  be 
in  a  lover,  everything  her  favourite  authors  told  her 
a  lover  ought  to  be  possessed  of,  she  believed  to  be 
in  Philemon.  Her  parents  perceived  the  situation  of 
her  mind.  In  vain  did  they  represent  to  her  the  dan- 
ger she  run,  and  that  she  had  not  yet  acquaintance 
enough  of  Philemon  to  know  any  thing,  with  certain- 
ty, about  his  character.  She  ascribed  these  admo- 
nitions to  the  too  great  coldness  and  prudence  of  age, 
and  she  disregarded  them.  Thus  did  Amanda  be- 
lieve herself  deeply  enamoured  with  Philemon  ;  but 
it  could  not  be  with  Philemon,  for  she  knew  little  of 
him.  She  was  the  dupe  of  her  own  wishes  ;  and 
she  deceived  herself  into  a  belief  that  she  was 
warmly  attached  to  him,  when  it  was  only  an  ideal 
being  of  her  own  creation  that  was  the.  object  of  her 
passion.  Philemon  may  be  worthy  of  the  love  of 
Amanda,  or  Amanda  may  be  able  to  preserve  the  de- 
ception she  is  under  even  after  marriage  ;  but  her 
danger  is  apparent. 

The  influence  of  self-deception  is  wonderfully  pow- 
erful^ *  Different  as  are  the  above  persons,  and  dif- 
ferent as  are  their  situations,  all  have  been  under  its 
guidance.  As  observed  above,  dishonesty,  in  our 
ordinary  transactions  in  the  world,  is  a  vice  which 
only  the  most  corrupted  and  abandoned  are  in  dan- 
ger of  falling  into  ;  but  that  dishonesty  with  ourselves, 


286  T»E     MIRROR. 

■which  leads  us  to  be  our  own  deceivers,  to  become 
the  dupes  of  our  own  prevailing  passions  and  inclina- 
tions, is  to  be  met  with  more  or  less  in  every  charac- 
ter. Here  we  are,  as  it  were,  parties  to  the  deceit, 
and,  instead  of  wishing  to  guard  against  it,  we  be- 
come the  willing  slaves  of  its  influence.  By  this 
means,  not  only  arc  bad  men  deceived  by  evil  pas- 
sions into  the  commission  of  crimes,  but  even  the 
worthiest  men,  by  giving  too  much  way  to  the  best 
and  most  amiable  feelings  of  the  heart,  may  be  led 
into  fatal  errors,  and  into  the  most  prejudicial  mis- 
conduct. 
S. 


END  OF  THE   FIRST  VOLUME. 


INDEX 


of  th: 


FIRST  VOLUME. 


No.  Page.' 

1  INTRODUCTORY  paper.    The  reception  which  a 

work  of  this  sort  is  likely  to  meet  with.     Some  ac- 
count of  the  author  and  his  intentions,  3 

2  Various  opinions  of  the  Mirror  over-heard  by  the  author 

in  the  shop  of  its  editor,  7 

3  Of  beauty.     Philosophical  opinions  of  it  ;  directions 

for  improving  and  preserving  it,  11 

4  The  effects  of  a  foreign  education,  in  a  letter  from  L.  G.     15 

5  Of  pedantry.     An  extension  of  that  phrase;  various 

instances  of  it,  21 

6  Seclusion  and  retirement  from  the  world  not  inconsist- 

ent with  talents  or  spirit  ;  character  of  Mr.  Umpra- 
ville,  25 

7  The  importance  of  names  in  writing,  in  a  letter  from 

Nomenclator,  29 

8  The  Musselman's  Mirror,  its  wonderful  properties ;  in 

a  letter  from  Vitreus,  34 

9  Censure  of  a  particular  piece  of  decorum  at  the  theatre, 

in  a  letter  from  A.  W. ;  with  the  author's  reflections 
upon  it. Note  from  Ignoramus,  39 

10  Effects  of  excessive  delicacy  and  refinement ;  charac- 

ter of  Mr.  Fleetwood,  44 

11  On  duelling.     Regulations  proposed ;  story  of  captain 

Douglas,  51 

12  Consequence  of  little  folks  of  intimacy  with  great  ones, 

in  a  letter  from  John  Homespun,  57 

13  Remarks  on  the  poems  of  Ossian,  §2 


CONTENTS, 

14  On  indolence,  68 

15  Of  education.  A  classical  contrasted  with  a  fashionable 

education,  74 

16  Of  spring.     Effects  of  that  s«ason  on  some  minds,  79 
1  7  Description  of  a  shopkeeper  virtuoso,   in  a  letter  from 

his  wife  Rebecca  Prune.     Observations  suggested  by 

it,  83 

18  Of  national  character.     Comparison  of  that  of  France 

and  of  England,  88 

19  Some  further  particulars  in  the  character  of  Mr.  Urn- 

phraville,  93 

20  On  the  acrimony  of  literary  disputes ;  narrative  of  a 

meeting  between  Sylvester  and  Alcander,  98 

21  Difficulties  of  a  bashful  author  in  corresponding  with 

the  Mirror,  in  a  letter  from  Y.  Z. Description  of 

a  nervous  wife,  in  a  letter  from  Joseph  Meekly,  102 

22  On  the  restraints  and  disguise  of  modern  education ; 

character  of  Cleone  ;  in  a  letter  from  Lxlius,  107 

23  History  of  a  good-hearted  man,  ho  one's  enemy  but 

hi6  own,  111 

24  Advantage  which  the  artist  m  the  fine  arts  has  over 

nature  in  the  assemblage  and  arrangement  of  objects  ; 
exemplified  in  Milton's  Allegro  and  'Penseroso,  115 

25  Description  of  the  visit  of  a  great  lady  to  the  house  of 

a  man  of  small  fortune,  in  a  second  letter  from  Mr. 
Homespun,  119 

26  The  rules  of  external  behaviour,  a  criterion  of  manners. 

Modern  good-breeding  compared  with  the  ancient,        126 

27  The  silent  expression  of  sorrow.     Feelings  and  beha- 

viour of  Mr.  Wentworth,  132 

28  Of  our  Indian  conquests.     Opinions  of  Mr.  Umphra- 

ville  on  that  subject,  138 

29  The  advantages  of  politeness,  and  disagreeable  conse- 

quences of  affected  rusticity. — Short  letter  from  Mo- 
destus,  142 

30  Of  female  manners.     Change  of  those  of  Scotland  con- 

sidered, 147 

31  Of  the  art  of  drawing  characters  in  writing,  152 

32  The  inconvenience  of  not  bearing  with  the  follies  of 

others  ;  some  particulars  of  a  visit  received  by  the  au- 
thor from  Mr.  Umphraville,  156 

33  Advantages  of  mutual  complacency  in  persons  nearly 

connected  \  letters  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gold,  160 

34  Subject  of  No.  32,  continued  ;  description  of  a  dinner 

given  to  Mr.  Umphraville  by  his  cousin,  Mr.  Bearskin,  105 


CONTENTS. 

35  Letter  from  Eugenius  on  the  doctrines  of  Lord  Ches- 

terfield.— From  Bridget  Nettlewit  on  the  rudeness  of 
an  assenter,  171 

36  Reflections  on  genius  unnoticed  and  unknown  ;  anec- 

dotes of  Michael  Bruce,  177 

37  Happiness  drawn  rather  from  prospect  than  possession  ; 

exemplified  in  the  history  of  Euphanor,  181 

38  Scheme  of  lectures  on  politeness,  by  Simulator,  188 

39  Danger,  Incident  to  men  of  fine  feelings,  of  quarrelling 

with  the  world,  193 

40  Second  part  of  the  lecture  on  Simulation,  196 

41  Description  of  a  tour  through  the  Highlands,  by  a  Lon- 

don family,  201 

42  Importance  of  religion  to  minds  of  sensibility  ;  story  of 

La  Roche,  205 

43  Story  of  La  Roche  continued,  210 

44  Story  of  La  Roche  concluded,  215 

45  Of  the  character  of  a  man  of  fashion,  221 

46  Humourous  account  of  a  cross-purpose  conversation,  in 

a  letter  from  Eutrapelus. — Answer  to  the  masters  of 
taverns  in  relation  to  the  Mirror  club,  227 

47  The  effects  of  delicacy  and  taste  on  happiness,  illustra- 

ted by  a  description  of  certain  characters,  233 

48  Whether  in  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  fine  arts,  the 

artist  or  connoisseur  has  an  advantage  over  the  com- 
mon spectator  ?  This  question  considered  with  regard 
to  painting,  239 

49  Distresses  of  the  families  of  soldiers  ;  story  of  Nancy 

Collins,  246 

50  Genius  and  Talents  rendered  useless  to  society  by  indo- 

lence and  inactivity  :  anecdotes  of  Mr.  Mordaunt,         250 

51  Danger  of  too  refined  an  education  to  girls  in  certain 

circumstances,  in  a  letter  from  Harriet  B        ■        ,        257 

52  Whimsical  proposal  for  an  improvement  in  agriculture, 

by  Posthumous  Agricola,  262 

53  Behaviour  of  great  ladies  in  town  to  their  country  ac- 

quaintance ;  in  a  letter  from  Elizabeth  Homespun,       267 

54  Recital  of  a  conversation-criticism  on  the  tragedy  of 

Zara,  273 

55  Of  self-deception,  290 


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